Into the Fire
by gaelicspirit
Summary: The brother's strengths are tested when they are confronted by both a supernatural threat... and a human one. Dean must face his fear of losing his brother in order to save not only Sam, but himself as well
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **Do not own the boys. This story is set in Season 2 immediately after **Hunted**. Anything before that is fair game. _

_a/n: This story returns Brenna and Declan Kavanagh to the brothers. They were first introduced in "Holding On To Let Go." Brenna returned in "Within My Hands." It is not necessary to read those stories to understand this plot, but there are assumptions made with this story that you know the relationship the boys have with these two, especially Brenna. I will also be inserting Gaelic phrases throughout and providing the translations at the end ._

_Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoy the journey!_

_E – __Go raibh maith agat.__ You know what for._

_Kelly – wouldn't want to do this without you._

_www_

_Everybody has something to conceal. -- Humphrey Bogart_

Into the Fire – Chapter 1

It looked like a thought… a whisper of a person. It looked like the after-image of a picture flash imprinted on his vision. It looked like a breath.

It was the final mistake of a life full of misconceptions and manipulations. He'd asked for help one day too late. He never even told her why. He would be leaving her without an explanation, without an escape, and with the weight of his death on her heart.

Its approach was soundless; its gaze devastating. As he sank to his knees, he tried to breathe, he tried to speak, he tried to plead, but he was left with nothing, his soul gutted. Her name was his last conscious thought. _Brenna…_

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He couldn't lose him again. He had a job to do; he made a promise. As long as possible, he would watch him, and when he couldn't watch him, he'd know where he was. He had to. He couldn't wake in a strange motel room, knowing the minute he took his first conscious breath that he was alone. That Sam had left him.

Dean sat Indian-style on top of the dryer, his eyes momentarily breaking from their guardian-like observation of his brother standing outside in the darkened parking lot, and resting on the spinning laundry in the clear-fronted washing machines across from him. His legs crossed at the ankles, the soles of his boots were anchoring him, the sleeves of his grey Henley pushed up to his elbows, his arms resting on his knees. He held his right hand in his left hand, unconsciously twisting the silver ring on his right ring finger in much the same way he'd seen his father do when lost in thought.

Whenever they were forced to visit a laundromat, he heard Steve Perry's distinct wail in his head: _they say that the road ain't no place to start a family_. It probably wasn't the best place to raise one either, but it had always worked just fine for Dean. As long as he made sure John had stopped frequently enough that their clothes remained in decent shape – especially when Sam had been young and Dean was able to pass down his outgrown clothes for a second use – and that they had enough food when John left on a hunt, they'd done just fine.

Then, of course, hunts became routine for him and Sam as well, and keeping clothes in one piece became secondary to keeping themselves in one piece. He recalled more than one midnight sitting in a laundromat working to get the blood out of the last pair of jeans he owned – until either he or John could hustle enough money to by more.

The rhythm of the dryer, heat of the room, and smell of the detergent and dryer sheets were beginning to calm him – lulling him into an almost half-awake state. He blinked, forcing his eyes wide and open, awake. He couldn't afford sleep, and he couldn't be weary. He had to watch out for Sam. Keep him close.

Dean slid his eyes back to the right and kept them on Sam, who was outside leaning against the big picture window, his head tilted back against the "N" in the stenciled _Laundromat_ on the window. The large light from the parking lot was attracting moths and throwing pale, white light across the black landscape and illuminating Sam's face, which was currently pulled together in a frustrated frown. He was on the phone. Again.

Watching his brother's intent stare directed toward the empty parking lot, Dean remembered transitioning from corralling toddler Sam with the laundry baskets to cajoling teen Sam into doing the laundry while he worked on the car, hustled pool, or picked up a pretty girl. The third being his favorite answer to Sam's inevitable _why, what are you gonna be doing_ reply to his request.

"Hey there," the voice was female, soft, and carried a tone of seduction that Dean would recognize anywhere. He shifted his eyes from Sam to the brunette standing just off to his right.

"Hey yourself," he pulled the side of his mouth up in a slow grin. He took measure of her in a second. She was cute – small, trim, long dark hair, large brown eyes. She wore jeans and a faded T-shirt that clung to her body in very interesting places. His eyes flicked from the words _Slippery When Wet_ splashed across her chest to her eyes. They were inviting him in.

"You gonna use that?" she pointed to a box of Tide on the dryer next to him.

Dean flicked his eyes outside to Sam, then back to the brunette, shaking his head once, watching her mouth. "Honey, what's mine is yours," he said with a slow grin that had gotten him more than one set of phone numbers in the past.

She reached for the box and his grin widened as he saw her blush. _It has been awhile_, he decided. He leaned slightly forward and his smile turned predatory as he saw her unconsciously lean toward him in response, stilling her breath. He knew the subtle ways to affect change in a woman. And at the moment, all he could think about was using the motion of the dryer he sat on to his distinct advantage.

"Dean," Sam's voice was as effective as a cold shower.

Dean's head jerked up, his eyes on Sam in response to the tone he heard in his voice.

"What is it?" Dean asked, hopping down off of the dryer and striding toward his brother, who was standing just inside the door. "You find something?"

Sam had been exhausting his contacts looking for Ava Wilson for the past week. They'd been staying in a slowly expanding circle from Peoria, IL, their hotel rooms papered with maps, fliers, clues as to Ava's possible whereabouts, but Dean knew the girl could be anywhere – literally _anywhere_. He was getting restless, but Sam needed to do this. And there was no way Dean was letting Sam out of his sight again. He'd barely slept in the time since Gordon Walker had been arrested. He couldn't quit waking up to make sure Sam was still there, still with him… still _Sam_.

"Uh, no… Joshua said he'd have to call me back," Sam swallowed, his eyes darting from Dean to the girl behind him and then back to his brother.

Dean narrowed his eyes, the brunette already forgotten. "What is it, then? You look like someone ran over your puppy. And we don't have a puppy."

"Uh, I got a call," Sam said, his large eyes blinking rapidly as he focused on Dean.

Dean lifted his eyebrows, "Not exactly earth-shattering news, Sammy. You've been on that phone all night."

"Not on my phone," Sam said, his voice low, his eyes suddenly steady, gauging Dean's reaction. Dean was reminded of the last time he'd seen that look on his brother's face. _And I'm not all right… not even close… but neither are you… that much I know…_

"What?" Dean tilted his head back and to the left, his eyes shadowed, his arms loose at his sides. He felt his breath slow as he waited for Sam to win the internal struggle over whatever he was trying to say.

"Uh, I got a call on Dad's phone, Dean."

Dean pulled his eyebrows together. "Come again?"

Sam swallowed, his lips thinning for a moment as he watched his brother. "Dean, someone called Dad's phone."

"What do you mean, _Dad's _phone?"

Sam held the small silver phone out to him, but Dean pulled slightly away. He looked at the phone, then back at Sam, waiting for an explanation. He kept his eyes carefully empty. He kept his body completely still. But he couldn't quiet the sudden screaming in his head or calm the shaking in his chest. And he couldn't figure out why the idea that someone had called John these many months later shook him so completely.

"I, uh," Sam began. "I kept Dad's cell, the one that Ellen left the message on. I kept it, y'know, in case…"

Dean pulled his head back. "In case what, Sam?" he asked bitterly. "You waiting for a message from the grave?"

Sam narrowed his gaze, anger plain on his face. "No, Dean. In case someone who didn't know about Dad called for his help."

"Oh, great," Dean shook his head and turned away from Sam, walking past the brunette without even seeing her. "That's just great, Sam."

Sam followed him, watching as he jerked open the dryer door. Dean began pulling out their jeans, boxers, and shirts and rotated to stuff them into the open duffle next to him. The brunette grabbed her clothes and quietly moved to the other side of the room. He barely registered her departure. He was too focused on trying to temper his sudden anger at his brother.

"What, _you're_ pissed now, is that it?"

Dean shot him a look out of the corners of his eyes. "Yes, Sam. I'm pissed."

"Why?"

Dean slammed the dryer door shut and turned back to Sam. "You kept his phone, Sam."

"So?"

Dean clenched his jaw. "You didn't tell me."

Sam flicked an eyebrow up. His lips bunched once and he cocked his head to the left as he spread the fingers of his right hand out away from him over his cast. "I think that pales a bit in comparison to what _you_ didn't tell _me_."

Dean went still. His eyes immediately drained of emotion. He stared at Sam for almost a full minute before shaking his head once. "If that's the way you want to play it."

He turned back to the second dryer full of clothes and began pulling clothes from it and stuffing them roughly into the duffel bag.

"It's just a phone, Dean," Sam said softly.

"It's _his_ phone, Sam," Dean retorted, his voice hard. That was it, he suddenly realized. It was John's phone. It was something that his father had once owned, had once held… something with an actual recording of his voice – John's voice saying something other than _I want you to watch out for Sammy… you have to save him, Dean… nothing else matters…_

"Why is that such a big deal to you?"

Dean didn't answer. He continued to shift the clothes around in the bag so that he could get the zipper pulled shut.

"Dean."

Dean pulled the duffel closed with force, his jaw flexing.

"Dean!"

"Damnit, Sam," Dean said in a soft voice. "Don't you know when to quit?"

Sam shook his head. "No."

Dean sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Why not?"

"'Cause _you_ taught me everything I know."

Dean jerked his head up and looked at Sam with honest surprise.

"Guess you left something out," Sam finished with a shrug. "Why is this such a big deal to you?" he repeated.

Dean stared silently at him. Sam stared back. Dean knew if he let him, Sam would push until he forced a response, any response. The problem was Dean could see that Sam didn't always know what to do with the weight of his words. Twice he'd broken and allowed Sam to see the effect of his burden. The first time Sam had sat silently, helplessly, watching him. The second time, Sam had raged at him, scared and confused. And then he'd left. It was understandable, Dean supposed; the protected should not have to carry their guardian – figuratively or literally. With a shake of his head, Dean grabbed the full duffel, stepped past Sam and walked toward the door.

"Don't you even want to know who it was?"

Dean kept walking.

"Dean."

Dean put his hand on the silver crossbar on the glass door, muscles tensing to push it open.

"It was Declan," Sam's voice was soft, but his words slammed into Dean, stopping his retreat.

"What?" Dean looked over at Sam, the duffel falling to the end of his arm.

Sam held the phone up again. "The message. It was from Declan Kavanagh."

Dean swallowed, careful to keep his voice steady. "Brenna… is she…"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know," he stepped forward, holding the phone out to Dean. "Listen for yourself."

Dean looked down at the phone for a moment, then dropped the duffel and took it from Sam's hand. The metal retained the warmth from Sam's grip and the phone felt strangely heavy in his hand. Pressing his lips together, Dean flipped the phone open and hit the message button, pressing the phone to his ear, and purposely avoiding Sam's eyes.

"_John, I screwed up. I know I don't have the right to ask you for help…not after… not after last time. But I got in over my head, and now I've, well, I've brought something back that should never have come back. I need your help, John – I don't have anyone else. Please get here soon. Oh, and John… don't send the boys. Whatever you do, just… just keep them away."_

Dean shifted his eyes to Sam and saw his own concern mirrored there. He pulled the phone from his face and looked at the date stamp on the message.

"Sam, this was two days ago."

Sam nodded.

Dean looked at him, "You only just got it?"

Sam swallowed and looked away, shoving his left hand into his jacket pocket and rolling his shoulders. "I wouldn't have even gotten it tonight except…"

Dean ducked his chin, his eyes searching Sam's. "Except what?"

"I don't really _use _the phone, Dean, it's more like… like a connection to Dad," Sam shrugged. "I don't really even know what made me check it tonight."

Dean blinked. Pulling his lower lip in, he nodded, flipped the phone closed, and tossed it back to Sam. Sam caught it clumsily against his chest with his left hand. He looked up at Dean, an irritated expression on his face. Dean leveled empty eyes at him, then bent to pick up the duffel and walked out of the laundromat and toward the Impala.

"Dean," Sam called after him. Dean opened the trunk and threw the duffel in, shutting the trunk with extra force. "Where are you going?"

"Massachusetts."

"He said for us not to come," Sam hedged.

Dean opened the driver side door and spared Sam a glance out of the corner of his eyes. "You kidding me with this?"

Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "What about Ava?"

Dean sighed, one arm braced on the roof of the Impala, the other on the opened door, his head bowed as though the car were holding him upright. And maybe for the moment it was.

"Sam," he said softly, not raising his head. "He called Dad for help. And, well, you said yourself once… we just don't have… _friends_."

Sam stayed silent, waiting… Dean could practically feel his brother's need to hear that they wouldn't give up on Ava. Dean knew that Sam needed to try just a little harder, search just a little longer… because what if…

Dean lifted his head and looked over his shoulder at Sam. "We can't _not_ go. We'll come back for Ava," he said. "I promise."

And there they were. The words that bound Dean Winchester to his fate. He watched as the impact of the words filtered through Sam's dark eyes, relaxing his features and Dean knew that Sam believed him, trusted him. That thought should have been reassuring; instead, Dean heard his father's voice giving him the one order he wasn't sure he could ever obey.How could he kill his reason for living?

Sam walked around to the passenger side and opened the door with his left hand, swinging into the car. Dean's door closed with a familiar creak of metal on metal and the Impala roared to life, music blaring from the radio.

"_Wait, you're almost there… It's gone… You're almost there… It's gone… You're almost where what follows you, does not bother you…"_

Dean checked over his shoulder for traffic, then pulled out to the main road, heading for the highway and then East to Blackroot, MA. His fingers traced the outline of the Impala's keys dangling just above his knee. They felt strangely light without the St. Christopher's medal swinging with them. The medal Brenna had given them for protection and was lost when the Impala turned herself inside out to save their lives.

"_Never found a gift I got for free… You pay for them dearly… I see my forever is one long night… If I can make it dark, I can make it light… I know that most of living done is done in the mind…"_

"It's not enough," Dean said so softly that it was almost a thought.

"What?" Dean felt rather than saw Sam shift in the seat to face him.

"Dad's journal," Dean raised his voice just slightly, shifting in his seat and gripping the steering wheel tighter with his right hand. His lips were pressed together in thought and his eyes were staring blankly out across the dark, empty road. "It's all we got left of him," he lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "It's not enough."

Sam looked away from Dean and out the front window. "Oh."

"We didn't even take his wedding ring, man."

"Bobby'll find the truck, Dean," Sam said, looking down to his lap, then back over to his brother.

"Yeah? When?"

"We just gotta give him some more time," Sam insisted.

"It's been months, Sam," Dean rotated his neck. "Truck's gone." _Truck's gone…and with it everything tangible that said John Winchester was here…_

"We're not," Sam tried.

Dean closed his eyes briefly with a quick shake of his head. "Not the same thing."

They sat in silence for a few moments, lost in their own thoughts, listening to the steady rumble of the Impala as she ate up mile after mile of blacktop.

"You put his dog tags in an empty grave," Dean said suddenly, jarring the silence with bitterness.

"It was mom's grave –"

"And you had his phone with you all this time," Dean continued.

"You knew I had the phone when I told you about Ellen –"

"Funny thing is," Dean interrupted him again not really even aware Sam had been speaking. "I hear him all the time… I hear what he said, what he made me promise… over and over, like a fucking broken record."

Sam was silent.

"But all I could think when you showed me that phone was that you had Dad's voice this whole time, right in your pocket, and you didn't tell me."

Dean cut his eyes over to Sam, saw him swallow, felt him search for words. He looked back at the road. He could let Sam spin, or he could throw him a rope. "Twisted, huh?" He offered.

Sam licked his lips. "I'm sorry, man."

Dean waved a dismissive hand in his direction.

"You've always been a little twisted, though," Sam said, lifting an eyebrow playfully as if to ward off the sting of his words.

Dean gave him a rueful grin. "Get some rest," he said. "We're gonna be on the road for awhile."

Sam looked at him. "You planning on driving all night?"

"We've already lost two days, Sam."

"When's the last time you slept more than two hours?"

Dean pressed his lips together in a shrug. "Dunno, but I'm all right."

"I'll stay awake with you," Sam said.

"Sam –"

"You aren't all right, Dean." The certainty in Sam's voice irritated Dean and he looked over at his brother.

"Ease up, Sammy," he said, looking back at the dark road. "I wouldn't put my baby in danger."

"Jesus, this damn car…" Sam grumbled.

"Hey! Watch how you're talking about her," Dean said, reaching out to stroke the dashboard. "She saved our lives, Sam."

Dean felt Sam's gaze and looked back at him briefly before returning his gaze to the road. There had been something in Sam's expression, a hint of fierce sadness, as though he was remembering something that Dean couldn't recall.

"Yeah," Sam whispered, shifting lower in his seat. "I guess she did."

Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eyes, remembering moments from their youth when Sam didn't quite fill the passenger seat so completely, when it was all Dean could do to keep from smothering his annoying younger brother in his sleep. As he watched Sam lean his head back against the seat and close his eyes, tired lines of helpless frustration framing his face, Dean found that he couldn't imagine a life without his brother by his side. And yet, it was life that was constantly conspiring to take Sam away from him.

Dean turned down the radio to give Sam some peace. "Couldn't sleep if I tried," he said in a low voice as they barreled down the darkened road to answer Declan's plea.

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Early dawn was one of Dean's favorite times of the day. Before the sun crested the horizon, when black faded to grey, and the evil that was cloaked by the night retreated to its corner for the day, there existed a moment when Dean could breathe. He always had the same thought: _we made it_. No matter if the night before had been simply sleeping in yet another strange motel room, or fighting the darkness that had permeated his life since the age of four, they had survived, they were together, and they could work their way through to the next moment, the next struggle. They were fewer in number now, but they were still together.

And he planned to keep it that way.

As he coasted into Blackroot, he sensed Sam wake next to him.

"We there already?"

"Already? You've been sleeping for about eight hours there, Rip," Dean said, shifting his eye to the side, watching Sam stretch himself awake.

"Man," Sam groaned, rotating his stiff neck and stretching his arms out in front of him. "You even stop for gas?"

Dean raised a brow and cut his eyes over to Sam. "No, Sam. The Mr. Fusion we installed back in Peoria has been working great. She runs on pork rinds and beer now."

Sam frowned at him, his eyes still puffy from sleep.

"I stopped twice," Dean said. "You were snoring both times." _And thankfully, nightmare free._

Sam yawned and stretched again. "Guess I was tired," he said on the tail end of the yawn.

Dean lifted his chin and took the turn toward the Kavanagh's property. "You and Salma have a good time?"

Sam's brows pulled together. "Huh?"

"The way you were smiling the second time I stopped, there was no need to guess what you were dreamin' about, man," Dean spared him an amused glance. "And with your taste in porn, I just figured…"

"Shut up," Sam waved a hand at him.

Dean just grinned.

Sam blinked, looking out of the window. "What do you think he brought back?" he asked suddenly, referring, Dean realized, to Declan's message. Sam had always been like a dog with a bone when there was an unanswered question in front of him. He was nothing if not tenacious.

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Last time he'd managed to tangle with a banshee. Who knows. Zombie? Poltergeist? Spirit?"

"You think Brenna's still there?"

Dean felt his brother's eyes on him. "Dunno," he said as casually as he could. "It's been a long time."

"It only feels like it has," Sam said softly, turning away from Dean and watching as they pulled into the parking lot of the Kavanagh's diner/bar/motel.

"Huh?"

"Well, it's really only been a little over six months," Sam pointed out.

Dean shot him a look. "Seriously?"

Sam nodded, sliding his eyes to his brother's face. "Feels like longer."

"Hell yeah, it does," Dean muttered, pulling the Impala to a stop next to one of the two other cars in the dirt lot.

Narrowing his eyes, he looked to his left, up to the house. It was still. Not a whisper of movement in the windows. His minds-eye flashed to the last time they'd been there. The windows had been open to create a cross breeze. And he couldn't remember a moment during their stay when Brenna hadn't had music playing from somewhere.

He slid his eyes to the garage. It, too, was still, but he could see that the skeletal bodies of the ruined and abandoned cars were gone. The front grill of the '82 Grande National was visible in the pale light of morning. The property had an abandoned feel to it. As if over the last couple of months, someone stopped caring about it and for it.

Dean looked over and met Sam's eyes. "Something's wrong."

"Yeah," Sam said softly, reaching for the door handle.

They stepped out of the Impala in unison. Dean reached down under the seat for his gun, sliding it behind him in his waste band. Sam looked over at him quickly, then shut his door. Just before stepping out of the car, Dean was ready to admit he was exhausted. Driving all night after a week of sleepless nights pulled at his body, slowing his movements. However, the moment he stepped away from the Impala, gun tucked safely in his belt, he was alert, ready. Something was wrong. Darkness was here, and he couldn't tell if it was _their _kind of darkness or not, but it was touching people he knew. Touching someone he cared about.

He noticed Sam mimic his scan of the silent exterior of the building that housed the diner and bar with the attached motel stretching off to the east. They stepped up to the front entrance together, and Dean tried the door. Somewhat surprised to find it unlocked, he went in first.

The interior was dark – the only light coming in from the various windows unadorned by curtains or shutters. The diner part of the bar was shadowed, but Dean could immediately see that the room suffered from the same neglect he'd observed in the house and garage. The billiard tables were gone, the dining chairs scattered hap-hazardly around the room. He cut his eyes to the right and saw two men sitting at the bar, resting their elbows on the bar surface, their eyes on the mirror behind the bar, watching the brothers approach.

A third man, who was decidedly _not_ Declan Kavanagh, stood behind the bar. As they moved carefully toward the men, Dean looked to the right side of the bar toward the tables that lined the back wall. A fourth man, older than the rest, sat in the booth at the back, and the rest of that side of the room was hidden by shadow. It was morning. Just after dawn. _What the hell are these guys doing here… and where the hell is Brenna…_

"Somethin' I can do for you boys?" said the man behind the counter. His voice carried a familiar lilt that Dean associated with Declan and Brenna – a hint of a past life, of a history. But where Brenna's lilt spoke of a history of heart and passion, this man's held a history of violence.

Dean and Sam approached the bar, standing off to the side of the two men. Dean stood in front and to the right of Sam, but caught his brother's surprised gaze at the shattered bottles of liquor lining the shelves that covered the bar mirror. It almost looked like they'd been hit by a bullet during a misbegotten round of target practice, but the absence of bullet holes in the smooth mirrored surface behind the bottles canceled out that thought.

"We, uh, we're looking for –"

"A beer. Got something on tap?" Dean interrupted Sam. He wanted to play their cards close to the vest for the moment. See what the hell these men were doing in Declan's pub without a Kavanagh in sight.

"Too early in the day for the devil," came the gravely voice of one of the men sitting at the bar.

_Interesting way of putting it_, Dean thought. "We've been on the road all night," he said, offering the man an insincere smile. He looked from the man nearest to him to the one at the end of the bar. Neither had moved; both kept their eyes on Dean's reflection in the mirror.

Dean realized long ago the power in the assumption that he was a greater threat than his brother. Sam was as fierce a warrior in a fight as Dean, he was simply more stealthy about it. Dean purposefully telegraphed his capacity for danger. He wanted the attention focused on him rather than on Sam. He wanted Sam kept in the shadows. He could keep him safe in the shadows.

"We're closed," said the man behind the bar.

"Oh really?" Sam said, his tone conveying a clear message of _bullshit_.

"Yes, really," the man said, leaning forward, his large, ruddy hands resting on the bar. "You'll want to move on down the road for your beer."

Dean cocked his head to the side. "'Fraid we can't do that."

The men sitting at the bar shifted and turned to face him as one. Dean blinked. It wasn't until all three faces were staring at him that he noticed they all looked alike. Not simply similar, but exactly alike. All shared dark brown eyes, large in a pinched, narrow face, and black hair slicked back with hair oil. They were dressed similarly, too. Dark jeans, tight-fitting T-shirts and suit coats.

"Yeah?" said the pseudo-bartender. "And why's that?"

"'Cause we're thirsty _now_," Dean said, lifting a shoulder and skipping his gaze past the three at the bar to the man in the back. He hadn't moved; simply watched the story unfold. He looked like the men at the bar, but there was gray in his hair, and his eyes were steady, calculating.

"You're friends of Declan Kavanagh," said the third man at the end of the bar. It was more of a statement than a question.

Dean gave him a slow blink in response. This wasn't what he was expecting after hearing Declan's message, but a human threat was still a threat; just not the kind of threat he thought someone would call John for help about…

The man behind the bar growled to his brother, "James, _bí ciúin._"

"_Cén fáth?"_

The third man looked to the one behind the counter. "Mick," he said in a voice low, and thick with alcohol. "James is right. Declan had to have sent these guys," he shook his head, his heavy eyes resting on Dean. "I knew the damn fool couldn't summon that spirit."

Dean flashed a quick look to Sam who lifted his eyebrows in response.

"Calling the spirit is the least of our concerns, Liam." Mick shook his head, lifting his eyes from his brother's bleary expression to meet Dean's watchful eyes.

"Enough!" came a deep but reedy voice from the back. Dean and Sam raised their heads as one and looked at the man sitting in the back of the room. "Mick, get rid of 'em. We've got work to do. And one of you idiots lock that door like I told you to last night."

Mick looked to the man, then back at Dean. Dean squared his shoulders and saw Sam step up closer to the bar, just out of his reach. He swallowed as Mick leaned below the bar and pulled out a familiar-looking gun. It was the Glock Sam had given Brenna.

"You're kidding me, right?" Dean said, tilting his head to look at Mick. "Big, tough gangsters and all you got's a borrowed gun?"

Liam reached into his inside coat pocket and removed a switchblade. He flipped the blade out with an expert flick of his wrist and stood from his bar stool. Dean began to reach behind him for his own gun, his heart in his stomach at the thought of a close-quarters shoot out. He took a step back, his eyes flicking quickly to Sam, working to maneuver his brother out of the way, back to the shadows.

Sam wasn't cooperating. He seemed to actually _want_ to tangle with the Irish trio. Dean knew Sam hadn't grabbed a weapon when he walked in. He had nothing to fight with…

"What about you, Slick," Dean said to James at the back of the bar, still gambling for time. "We got the revolver, the knife… you got a candlestick up your sleeve?"

In that moment, Dean lost all sense of time. He saw Mick flip the counter-break and step from behind the bar and heard the safety click off of the gun. Dean pulled his gun the rest of the way from his waist band and held it ready at his side, his eyes shifting from Mick to his brothers, weighing the threat level. He was feverishly thinking how he'd get the Glock from Mick when Sam suddenly grabbed one of the chairs next to them and with a roar that surprised all present, slammed it against the lower part of the bar, shattering the wood and leaving him with a jagged-edged club.

"We gonna do this or what?" Sam said.

Dean couldn't stop himself from blinking in complete surprise at his little brother. The look of anger and disgust in Sam's eyes was a completely foreign expression coming from him. It was as if someone else were standing in his brother's skin.

He wasn't given much time to contemplate the abrupt change in Sam, however, as Mick raised his gun and pointed it at Sam's head. Dean stopped thinking; he moved on instinct. His gun was up, aimed at Mick, and the echo of his shot filled the void of the room before he took his next breath. Mick cried out and dropped his gun, gripping his shoulder as his legs buckled under him.

Sam swung his chair-club and cracked Liam on the neck, forcing him to drop his blade and distracting him from going after Dean. Dean lifted his head to meet Sam's eyes. Sam raised the club again, drawing Liam's attention while Dean stepped forward to kick the discarded weapon away from the fallen brother and moving to gain control of the situation. In the same moment, James reached behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels by the neck as he advanced. Dean's only warning was the widening of Sam's eyes before James swung the bottle like a bat, shattering it against the side of Dean's head.

Dean didn't feel the impact. It was simply as if he were suddenly deaf and blind. He was caught in a vacuum, able only to draw his next breath. He felt himself sink to his knees, felt the gun drop from his grasp, but he didn't hear it hit the floor, and he couldn't see... he couldn't see Sam... He blinked once, twice, his vision returning as a blurred mesh of confused images. He fell slightly forward, instinct the only thing that made him put his hands out before he hit the floor. He felt something warm and wet on the side of his face. It was hard to think. He knew he had to find Sam… someone had a… a gun… and he had to… had to make sure that Sam… why was it so hard to _think_?

He felt someone grip his coat and thought for a split second that Sam had found _him_ when sensation suddenly slammed back into him through the force of a fist cracking across his jaw. His ears rang and he hit the floor hard, unable to get his hands under him this time to catch himself. He kept blinking, trying to clear his vision, trying to focus. If he could see Sam, he'd be okay. A foot in his lower back caused him to arch in a reflex from the pain and forced the air from his lungs in a rush. Light and sound flooded him as his air rushed out. He tried to shake his head, tried to push himself up, but the foot caught him again, this time across the cheek bone.

"HEY! Get the fuck away from him!"

Dean blinked again, trying to separate the blurred images into actual people and things. He knew that was Sam's voice. He'd know his brother's voice anywhere. But he'd never heard him that angry before. Not even when he had been fighting with John. Not even the night he left…

From somewhere above him he heard a crack of what sounded like flesh on flesh and tried to roll to his stomach, tried to get his hands under him again. He had to get up… get off the floor… help Sam. He succeeded in getting his left hand flat on the floor and pushed himself to his knees when he felt the foot slam into his ribs. This time as the air left him, so did a cry of pain.

"You touch him again, I swear to God I'll kill your brother," the venom in Sam's voice seeped through the haze of pain and confusion clouding Dean's brain.

He blinked again and shook his head, still on his hands and knees. Something sticky flicked into his eyes and he swiped at it with an impatient hand. Blood. His blood. Clarity cut through the remaining fog. The only thing that focused him faster than the sight of his own blood was the sight of Sam's. Using the back of a nearby chair, he pulled himself slowly to his feet, reaching to the bar for support. When he was on his feet, he blinked more blood from his eyes and searched the room for Sam.

His back was on fire, his face throbbed with every heartbeat, and the pain in his head made his vision swim. He pulled in a shaky breath, then saw Sam. His heart stopped. Sam stood above Liam, who was on his knees, his head pulled back painfully by Sam's grip of his hair. Sam's eyes were fierce. He had Dean's gun balanced carefully in his right hand, the inconvenience of his cast seemingly forgotten for the moment, and pointed at Liam's temple.

Dean swallowed, willing his heart to beat again as the room swam. He gripped the edge of the bar harder, looking for the other two men. Mick had pulled himself to the corner behind Dean, near the tables at the back and was holding his shoulder, his eyes on Sam. James was standing a few feet from Dean, his mouth bloody, his eye blackened. He had his hands out to his sides, his eyes on the gun pointed at Liam's temple.

Dean looked back at Sam. There was a rising bruise under his right eye, and what looked like a shallow cut on his shoulder. Dean blinked as he realized he'd just gotten his ass handed to him by an Irish gangster, and there stood Sam, looming over the threat like a reckoning.

"Dean?" Sam didn't look at him; he kept his eyes on the threat. _Atta boy_, Dean thought.

"M'okay, Sam," Dean breathed. He was okay as long as he didn't let go of the bar. Which was beginning to become a problem because he just noticed that he was shaking.

"You sure?"

"Let'm go." Dean tried to pull some strength into his voice this time. He saw Sam flash his eyes quickly up at him, then back to James.

"Get over there." Sam shoved Liam forward roughly by the hair and raised the gun to James. Liam crawled quickly away from Sam and toward his brother, standing only when he was next to James. Sam kept his eyes and gun on James as he crouched quickly to retrieve the loose gun.

He moved toward Dean, keeping the gun trained on the two at the end of the bar. Dean shifted his eyes from Sam to the man cowering in the corner. Sometimes the wounded threat was the deadliest. Mick shifted his eyes from Sam to the man at the back of the bar and Dean was hard-pressed to tell which person seemed to scare him more. Sam stepped up to Dean, handing him his gun, and shifting the Glock back to his left hand where he could grip it better.

"Dean," Sam started, his tone low, meant only for his brother. "You're bleeding all over the place."

"I got hit with something," Dean muttered, reaching up with his gun hand to touch his throbbing head.

"Bottle of whiskey," Sam said, shifting his eyes from Liam and James to Dean's face. "You went down so fast… I thought…"

Dean heard the slight tremor there betraying the sudden bad-ass image Sam was conveying. He was relieved.

"I'm up now," Dean said, his voice shaking.

He knew Sam was a fighter, knew he could hold his own. But even after all they'd seen, all they'd done, everything they'd lived through, Sam had managed to retain an innocence about him that Dean wasn't sure he himself ever had. It was almost a sweetness – a hopeful outlook on life that Dean couldn't share. Didn't know _how_ to share. And since that morning outside of Rivergrove, Oregon, when he'd finally confessed to Sam the burden John had left with him, Dean watched with helpless agony as Sam's remaining innocence slowly drained away and was replaced by a desperate focus to deny his destiny.

"Check him," Dean said, nodding his head at Mick in what was a thin reflection of his normal tone. He was having trouble pulling in a breath and the pounding in his head was beginning to drown out rational thought. Sam moved across the room, stepping up to the tables and behind Mick. He leaned over to check Mick's pockets, and the man pulled away, an angry glint in his eyes. He released his wounded shoulder, reaching for something in his inside pocket before Sam could get there.

Dean lifted his gun in a shaky grip. "HEY!" He barked.

"There's no need for that," came the voice from the man at the back. Dean had almost forgotten about him. "Liam, James, get your brother and get to the car. Wait for me there."

"Pop –"

"Silence!" the man roared back at Liam, his hand slamming onto the table with a jarring sound. "You were given one task. One! And this boy with a broken hand bested you. Now leave."

Across the room from him, Dean saw Sam flick an eyebrow at Liam. He couldn't help but grin. He turned to look back at the man at the table. Sam, too, turned to face him as Liam and James helped their wounded brother off of the floor and out the front door.

"Well, you've made the acquaintance of my sons. I am Eamon, but most people call me Sir."

"Think you should join your sons outside, _Eamon_," Dean snapped, wrapping his arm around his ribs, tucking his gun under his arm, and pulling himself up straighter. He noticed Sam had squared his shoulders. Only one man in their lives deserved to be called _Sir_.

"Seems we have some things to discuss," Eamon said, stepping slowly from the shadows. He was thinner than his sons, but Dean could tell at a glance that he was powerful. There was something about the way he carried himself; when he spoke people listened, and then acted on what he said.

"What's to discuss?" Sam shot back.

_Easy, Sam,_ Dean threw him a look.

Cocky in the face of stupidity was one thing… This man was an intelligent adversary, and Dean was in no condition to put up much of a fight. He released his grip on the bar. The room immediately tilted, but he pulled in a breath and balanced himself. The blood running from the cuts on his head had begun to soak the collar of his shirt and pool at the base of his neck. He released his ribs, shifting his grip on his gun, and was relieved when he was able to stand without swaying.

"Well, for one," Eamon said, then glanced to his right into the shadows of the room. "There is the fate of your young friend."

Dean stiffened and darted his eyes to the shadows. At Eamon's signal, a fifth man stepped toward them. He was much larger than the other three, his face impassive, his eyes cold, and gripped in his large hands was Brenna.

"Son of a bitch," growled Dean through clenched teeth.

She was blind-folded and gagged, with her hands tied in front of her. The fifth man held her tightly against him, facing out. Dean realized she had been there, in the shadows, unable to speak, unable to see, the entire time. The way they held her made him suspect they knew of her power.

"What we're looking for is not worth her life," Eamon continued, stepping forward so that he was an arm's length away from Brenna. "But I'm not above killing her to get it. And Danny, here, is like an attack dog. Once he starts… it's very difficult to get him to stop."

Dean's eyes darted from Eamon to Danny to Brenna and back. Danny's hands looked massive on Brenna's slim shoulders, and his eyes were cold. He stared toward Dean, but not at him. He seemed to simply be waiting to be told what to do next. Without looking down, Dean double-checked that the safety was off of his gun.

"Well, what the hell do you want?" Dean said, the audible tremor in his voice betraying the pain his stance concealed.

"Simply what we were promised as recompense for our sizable loan to Mr. Kavanagh," Eamon replied. He moved around to the other side of Danny, his eyes on Brenna.

Dean stepped to the side, keeping the trio in his wavering sight. He was moving in the opposite direction of Sam, who was still across the room, slightly shadowed. Eamon kept his dark eyes on Dean, following his shaky steps as he made a show of moving closer to the bar. He leaned his elbow on the edge, letting it take the most of his weight, and kept his gun at a low aim directed at Eamon. In his periphery, Dean saw Sam slip into the shadows, working to position himself almost directly behind .Danny.

"Maybe you tell me what that is and I'll see if I can get it for you," Dean said, working to keep the focus on him and away from Sam. He failed.

"It won't work," Eamon said coldly, his voice slightly raised. He didn't move his eyes from Dean's, but it was evident he was addressing Sam. "Danny is indiscriminant. He will kill or maim whomever I tell him to."

Eamon flicked an eyebrow at Dean, then meaningfully looked slowly over his shoulder into the shadows behind Danny. Dean couldn't tell if he saw Sam. He just knew he didn't like the look offered in his brother's direction.

"Hey, Don Corleone. Eyes front," Dean said, tipping the barrel of his gun toward Eamon's head.

"Call him off," Eamon ordered.

"Bite me," Dean countered, lifting an eyebrow.

Eamon looked at him, seemed to decide something, then reached out to trace a finger down Brenna's cheek. Brenna silently twisted away from his hand, the first movement she'd made since Dean had seen her. Danny slid his arms from Brenna's shoulders to her head and neck.

"You know," Eamon mused, his eyes still on Dean, challenging him. "Human life is so fragile. Our bodies are intricate, fascinating machines. Yet they can be broken so easily."

His finger continued to stroke Brenna's cheek and Dean saw her lip curl in silent disgust. Dean clenched his jaw, biting off a retort, his eyes hot. He tightened his grip on the gun, pulled his arm from the bar, and cupped the butt of the pistol in his left hand, steadying his aim.

"One small move, and her neck snaps, her life ending," Eamon said, watching Dean.

Danny tightened his grip on the side of Brenna's head and neck. Dean heard her swift intake of breath.

"Don't you fucking think about it," Dean said, his voice low and dangerous.

He raised his gun up to point unwavering at Danny's head. Anger, hot and powerful, suddenly filled him. The world had come into sharp focus at Brenna's gasp. The pain he'd felt from the fight vanished for the moment. He kept his eyes on Danny, his gun pointed at the man's head. His arms were steady, his body language unmistakable: if one wrong move was made, someone was dying today.

"Tempt not a desperate man," Eamon taunted, a mirthless smile curling up on side of his mouth, his finger still slowly stroking Brenna's cheek. Brenna couldn't pull her face further away because of Danny's restraining grip. Dean didn't lower his gun. He'd lost sight of Sam in the shadows. He desperately hoped Eamon had as well.

"Declan was warned," Eamon continued.

"I'm not Declan," Dean snapped. "Now let her go."

No one moved.

Dean cocked the gun. "Let. Her. Go."

He took two deliberate steps forward, his gun now an arm's length from Danny's forehead. The man was so tall that Brenna only came to his shoulders. Dean had a clean shot, and he was completely prepared to take it if the big Irishman made one more move to follow through with his threat. When Eamon remained silent, Dean stepped closer, the barrel of his gun inches from pressing into Danny's face.

"I'm not in the mood to say it again," Dean said, keeping his eyes on Danny, Eamon in his periphery. "So unless you want me to give your attack dog a new way to whistle…"

He saw Danny shift doubtful eyes to Eamon, then back to Dean. As if by a silent command, he loosened his grip on Brenna's head and neck, moving his large hands back to her shoulders. Dean took a half-step back, shifting his eyes from Danny to Eamon, but keeping his gun on the big man holding Brenna. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean saw the briefest hint of movement. _Sam…_

Unexpectedly, Brenna stiffened. She suddenly spread her bound hands as wide as she could, stretching out her fingers. He had only a moment to register this before Sam swung the barrel of the Glock in a sneak attack from behind, cracking it across the back of Danny's head.

The big man instantly released Brenna, who fell forward, catching herself with her outstretched, bound hands before her face hit the floor. Dean whirled and grabbed the front of Eamon's jacket, turning the elder man and slamming him against the bar, his gun pressed to the man's cheek. Danny fell heavily to his knees and Sam swung again, hitting the big man at the base of the neck and toppling him.

Dean kept his gun pressed into Eamon's cheek, his forearm across the older man's chest, holding him against the bar. He looked over his shoulder. Brenna had pushed herself to her knees and was pulling the blindfold and gag from her face. Her eyes wildly searched the room until they saw him. He met her look for an instant – long enough to see the bird-like wide pupils of her sighted eyes – then he shifted his eyes behind her to Sam. Brenna turned the other direction and saw Sam.

Dean blinked, keeping his eyes on Sam. "He out?"

Sam nodded, watching Dean hold Eamon against the bar. Dean felt Eamon begin to push away and pressed the barrel of his gun harder into the man's cheek. "Hold, still," Dean snarled, "or I just might decide to see how fragile _your_ body is."

A sudden cry behind him caught Dean's attention. It sounded very much like a caged, wounded animal. He looked toward Sam again and instead saw that Brenna had pushed herself to her feet and was advancing on the prone form of Danny lying at her feet. Accompanied by a string of swiftly spoken Gaelic, she began kicking Danny along the back and legs, stomping on his arm and hand when her attack didn't seem to do enough damage.

"Whoa!" Sam stepped forward, dropping the gun he'd used as a club behind him. "Whoa, easy!"

Brenna ignored him, continuing to kick the shit out of the unconscious man. Sam caught her at the waist, lifting her up and away from Danny's body. Brenna continued to struggle, her small but powerful body almost sliding from Sam's grip. He hoisted her up to his hip and backed away. Dean silently watched the scene unfold, his gun pressed deep into Eamon's cheek, his left arm holding the elder man roughly against the bar. He almost wished Sam would allow her to continue. Pain and anger rolled from Brenna in waves and Dean thought he could feel them hit him with each throb in his head.

Sam was saying her name. Dean watched as his brother held Brenna carefully against him until her struggles slowed. She lifted her eyes to Dean's face, but carefully avoided meeting his eyes. They both knew how swiftly she could connect to him, and how helpless the wake of her power left them.

"Easy," Sam was saying softly into her ear.

Dean watched her watch him and he saw her begin to relax as Sam's calming voice coaxed her into a waiting chair that was just a couple of feet away from Dean. If he let go of Eamon, he could reach out and touch her. And he suddenly wanted to do just that. He wanted that contact. He wanted to touch her. And that irritated him. He shoved Eamon back against the bar with extra force when the man attempted to straighten.

"What the hell took you guys so long," Brenna finally breathed, her voice shaking from either fear or fury, Dean couldn't tell.

Sam crouched in front of her, gently removing the ropes from her wrists. Dean continued to watch as Sam winced at the raw marks the ropes left behind, then lifted his eyes back to Brenna's face. He looked at her chin, her jaw, her lips, her short, wild hair… anywhere but her eyes. He realized that his shaking had eased. With Brenna watching him, he felt stronger. She cut her gaze from him, and looked down at her wrists. Dean turned back to Eamon, blinking to focus on the narrow face and dark eyes.

"Let me get him out of here," Eamon spoke up, his voice muffled by the barrel pressed into his cheek, his eyes shifting to Danny's prone form.

"What, so you can regroup and come back?" Dean said, shifting his stance, trying to keep his balance. "I don't think so."

"Declan Kavanagh owes a debt," Eamon snapped. "He will pay."

He had to end this, now, Dean realized. He was losing focus, losing strength. He shot his eyes down to Sam. Sam was still crouched in front of Brenna, rubbing her wrists. He didn't look up at Dean, seeming to finally believe Dean's mantra of _I'm fine_. Only this time, he wasn't fine.

"Declan isn't here," he stepped back, allowing Eamon to straighten, but didn't lower his gun. "You want him to pay, you need to find him. Not her. You hear me? Do I make myself _clear_?"

Dean kept his eyes on Eamon, working desperately to mask the weakened tremble that was building from his lower back and spreading through his chest. For one moment his vision wavered, but he didn't move, didn't lower his gun.

"Crystal," Eamon snarled, then rubbed his cheek slowly where the barrel of Dean's gun had left a bruise.

Dean took another step back, standing next to Brenna's chair, just beyond Sam. He kept his gun pointed on Eamon. "Get him and get out."

Eamon stepped over to Danny's unconscious form, picking him up with an ease that surprised Dean. He turned to face Dean.

"Declan doesn't just owe me. He owes someone much bigger than me."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Bigger than you, huh? Stop. You're scaring me."

Eamon moved past Dean toward the door. "You'll see." He spared Dean one last glance. "The spirit he summoned is a double-edge sword. He either controls it, or it kills him." He seemed to offer this more like a token than a warning. Eamon looked at Brenna, smiling coldly, then moved out the front door, leaving it open behind him. Only when he was out of sight did Dean lower his gun.

Sam stood up and walked over to the front door. He closed and locked it, his back to the room.

"Why didn't you call the cops on those bastards?" Brenna asked, venom in her voice.

She was looking at Sam, rubbing her wrists. Dean knew he couldn't block the power of her druid gaze, but he missed her eyes. He'd felt stronger somehow those moments she was watching him. Now he felt cold… and the room had started a slow spin. He watched as Sam turned away from the door and back to Brenna, his shoulder's bowed slightly. Dean realized he could hear a strange sort of humming in his ears. It was starting to overpower their voices.

"We can't," Sam was saying.

"You're wanted by the _police_ now?" Brenna asked, incredulous. "Demons weren't enough for you guys?"

"Long story," Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Dean wanted his brother to look at him. He wanted someone to look at him. He was starting to feel odd – like he was disappearing. His fingertips tingled and the tremble in his chest increased to full-on shaking. He tried to take a step toward Sam. He wasn't far away, just a few feet really. If he could move toward him, maybe Sam would see him. He couldn't seem to move. He knew that if he took one step, he was going down. The cuts in his scalp from the whiskey bottle were throbbing in harmony with the bruises on his back and ribs. He cursed his own inability to avoid that hit, knowing the sleepless nights had finally bit him in the ass.

The humming grew louder. Static on his internal radio station, drowning out his brother's voice, muffling Brenna's words… the only thing he could still hear clearly was his Dad. John's voice low, desperate, pleading in his ear… _you've got to save him, Dean… nothing else matters… if you don't save him, you will have to kill him…_

"Where is Declan?" Sam was asking.

"I don't know," Brenna sighed. Her voice sounded tinny in Dean's ears, like she was talking across a long-distance phone line. "I got back here two days ago… I heard him call for me… but, when I got here he was gone… the place was a mess…"

"Eamon said he summoned a spirit," Sam continued. Dean saw him narrow his eyes, his cast-bound hand resting on his hip. "Any idea what spirit, or… where he would have gone?"

"No," Brenna rubbed her face and Dean watched Sam's eyes soften. He looked from Sam to Brenna. He wanted to step forward; he wanted to gather her up. He wanted to be able to hear something other than John's words.

"How long were they here, Brenna?" Sam was asking softly, concern for what Brenna had gone through evident on his face.

Dean was beginning to get desperate. Sam still hadn't looked at him, and Dean was shaking. Dark spots were collecting at the corners of his vision and the humming was taking over, drowning out even John's constant plea… his insistent command.

"Sam," Dean tried. He knew his lips moved, but he couldn't hear himself. Sam didn't lift his eyes from Brenna. He swallowed. Maybe he _was_ disappearing. Maybe… he looked down at Brenna. _Brenna…_

Brenna suddenly whipped her head over to Dean.

"Sam," Dean slurred, finally, blessedly hearing his own voice. The gun fell from his numb fingers and he felt himself sway. "Sammy…"

He never saw Sam launch forward to catch him. He never felt his brother's arms saving him from crashing into the floor. He never heard Sam's desperate call of his name. He only knew the blessed release from pain as he fell forward into the waiting darkness.

www

a/n:

Translations:

Go raibh maith agat. Thank you.

Bí ciúin. Be quiet.

Cén fáth? Why?

Songs are:

"Faithfully" by Journey

"Wait" by Seven Mary Three

31


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1 _

_a/n: Thanks so much for all of your reviews. Your words mean so much to me._

_This is a bit of a transition chapter. There is much action to come, but I needed to get the boys from where they were to where they need to be... Also, it's written from Sam's POV; I am going to alternate the story between the brothers. I'm trying to see if I can take them from two separate thought processes to one realization in the course of the story. You'll have to tell me if it works… assuming you stick with me to the end. Oh, and each chapter is going to overlap the last little bit of the chapter before to help with the POV transition. I'm trying that technique on to see if it fits. You all are my mirrors…_

_E – _A friend is the one who comes in when the whole world has gone out. _Thanks for coming in when you did._

_Kelly – You've done for me what few others thought to._

_www_

_The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire. - Ferdinand Foch_

Into the Fire – Chapter 2

"Why didn't you call the cops on those bastards?" Brenna asked. Sam could hear heat and anger in her voice.

He turned away from the door and back to Brenna. His eyes dropped to her hands rubbing at the raw marks left from the ropes that had bound her. He felt suddenly heavy. _If only it were that simple_, he thought. But he knew they would never be able to call for help. Not anymore. There was no cavalry for the Winchesters. There was only himself and Dean. And for the first time in his life, Sam was scared that they weren't enough.

"We can't," he said, meeting her eyes. He felt a strange pull, as though the air had suddenly been sucked out of the room. He saw her bird-like eyes widen slightly and felt strangely dizzy. It took him a moment to realize what was happening. Dean was right. She did put a whammy on him.

"You're wanted by the _police_ now?" Brenna asked, incredulous. "Demons weren't enough for you guys?"

"Long story," Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair to steady himself and shake off the effect of her eyes.

He moved away from the door towards her, catching Dean in his periphery. His brother was standing very still, his gun at his side, looking at him. He should go check on him. Dean was never still. But he knew Dean would say that he was fine, just as he always did. He focused on Brenna.

"Where is Declan?" he asked her. He didn't know how long the men had been there, what they might have done to her.

"I don't know," Brenna sighed. "I got back here two days ago… I heard him call for me… but, when I got here he was gone… the place was a mess…"

"Eamon said he summoned a spirit," Sam continued when her words died away. He narrowed his eyes, resting his right hand on his hip. "Any idea what spirit, or… where he would have gone?"

"No," Brenna rubbed her face.

Sam felt his heart catch a little at that motion. She covered her mouth with her hand, pulled her fingers together, then ran her fingers up the bridge of her nose to her forehead. He'd seen his brother do that very same pattern too many times to count.

"How long were they here, Brenna?" Sam asked, not realizing that he pitched his voice low to get under her wall – not realizing that he was handling her as he handled Dean.

Without warning, Brenna whipped her head over to face Dean.

"Sam." Sam heard the slur in his brother's voice. He vaulted to his feet, shocked to see how pale Dean suddenly looked, the blood on his face a glowing crimson stain against the translucence of his skin.

"Sammy…"

Sam saw Dean sway, saw the gun drop from his fingers, and it was as if he were suddenly moving underwater. He stepped forward as Dean's knees buckled, catching his weight as Dean sank lifelessly into his arms.

"Dean!" he called to him, stumbling a bit and going to his knees, holding Dean close to him.

"Dammit," he heard Brenna mutter and felt her move alongside him.

Sam shifted and turned Dean's body so that his arm was under Dean's shoulders, his brother's face turned up. He gently tapped his cheek. "Dean, hey… hey," he had trouble getting the words past his suddenly frozen lips. Dean's brows pulled together, his lashes fluttered, then he was still once more. Sam's heart stuttered. He couldn't take a full breath.

"I saw him get hit," he said in a choked voice. "I should have checked on him."

"Sam," Brenna snapped. "Stop that. You're not helping him by feeling guilty." She leaned close, her eyes darting over Dean's face. "He's got a pretty deep cut here," she pointed to the hairline just above his eyebrow, "and a decent-sized knot on the side here," she pointed to just above his ear. "I'm amazed he stayed on his feet so long."

"Damn stubborn idiot," Sam almost growled, his chest aching with helpless dread. He now lived with a constant quiet fear of watching Dean die… in front of him… in his arms… because of him. When all was quiet, he could still hear the wail of the flat-lining heart monitor, could still see Dean's body buck in reaction to the defibrillator.

"We have to get him to a hospital," Brenna said, starting to rise.

"No," Sam said immediately. He felt his stomach turn to ice at the word, but he knew the last place they could go was a hospital. Dean couldn't go to any place that could potentially identify him. Sam knew that if Dean were conscious, he'd protest just as loudly.

"What the hell do you mean, _no_?" Brenna shot to her feet, her hands on her hips.

Sam looked up at her, his eyes dull with reality. "No hospital, Brenna," he repeated.

"Sam," Brenna cocked her head to the side, her eyes narrowing. Sam saw they'd returned to their normal green-gold, her pupils a normal size and not wide like the eyes of a predatory bird.

"Just help me get him up," Sam insisted, shifting his weight so that he could push himself to his feet. "You've healed him before."

"Yeah, but that was… different."

Sam shot her a look. "What are you talking about? You brought him back to life, Brenna."

Brenna shifted her eyes from Sam to Dean and back. "Sam…"

"Listen," Sam felt anger flare at her, hot and fast. He didn't want to register how quickly rage built inside of him these days, how much control it took to keep it in check, what that might mean… _He said I might have to kill you, Sammy…_ The devastated horror in Dean's voice when he forced those words out into the tension-filled air between them echoed in Sam's head. "Dean is in the system. We can't go to a hospital, and he needs your help."

"Fake name?" She countered, still resisting. She had moved her eyes from Sam to Dean's face and kept them there. Sam watched as she pulled in her bottom lip, worrying it with her teeth.

"Physical description, blood type, any of it could give him away. We can't take that chance."

The blood from Dean's shirt was soaking into Sam's sleeve. Sam looked down at his brother's face, saw the freckles across the bridge of his nose stand out in stark contrast to the pallor of his face. Sam tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder; Dean's head rolled in the crook of Sam's arm, his forehead resting against Sam's chest. He looked up at Brenna.

"Please," he said, his brows pulled together. "Can you just… just help us?"_ For once, can't someone just help_ us

"God, Sam," she whispered, fisting a hand in the back of her short red-gold hair. "It's not that I won't help you." She met his eyes and he saw something there that he didn't understand. A sort of desperation -- a fear that hadn't been present in her gaze until that moment.

"What is it then?" Too much time was passing. How long ago had Dean been hit? How long had he been bleeding? He knew head wounds bled a lot, but still… He moved his hand to the side of Dean's head and was relieved to see that the flow of blood had stopped at some point and was now just seeping from the cut along his hairline.

Brenna took a shaky breath, then crouched back down next to Sam. She reached out for Dean's hand, lying limp across his chest. Sam noticed that her fingers trembled and suddenly realized that she hadn't touched Dean yet. Not once since they'd discovered her presence.

As her fingers closed over his brother's hand, her head snapped back, her eyes closed and she stopped breathing. Dean went rigid, his neck arching up, his breath a strained exhale. Sam stared at them for a moment, shocked. Then suddenly he remembered New Orleans, when he'd called Brenna for help against the nightmare witch trapped inside of Dean. Dean had been unconscious and when she touched him, she'd been pulled inside his nightmare without warning.

"Brenna!" Sam yelled at her. Her jaw was tight and he could see tears leaking from the sides of her eyes. Dean started to shake and Sam saw his brother's fingers tighten around Brenna's with enough strength to turn his knuckles white.

Sam let go of Dean with one hand, reached out and forced her hand away from his brother's. "Brenna!"

The instant the connection was broken Brenna dropped her head and pulled in a long shaky breath. She fell back and sat down hard on the floor next to Dean. Her eyes had gone predatory and tears coursed freely down her cheeks.

"Oh, God," she breathed. "Sam… he…"

"What?" Sam asked frantically. He pulled Dean closer to him, unconsciously protecting him from Brenna's touch. When she'd let go of him, Dean had gone limp in Sam's arms, his breath coming in quick gasps. "What did you see?"

"John's… John's dead?" she blinked at Sam, seemingly unaware of the tears that flicked off of her lashes.

Sam swallowed, not relaxing his hold on Dean. His brother's face was pressed against his arm, leaving space only to breathe. Sam gripped his shoulders and kept one hand out toward Brenna as if to hold her away.

"Yeah," he answered.

"S-sam," her voice trembled. "He… I saw..."

Sam pulled his eyebrows together, tilting his head. "What did you see?" he repeated.

She rested tragic eyes on Dean's profile. Lifting a trembling hand, she swiped at the tears on her cheeks with an impatient gesture. "John… with yellow eyes… tearing him up… a… woman with dark hair… and John telling him…"

She looked quickly up at Sam.

Sam pressed his lips together. Blinking once, he said, "I know what Dad told him. I know what he has to do."

Brenna looked back down at Dean. "Sam… he's…"

Sam ducked his head to catch her eyes. "He's what?" Brenna's tears, the devastation in her eyes, shook Sam. She'd only held on to Dean for a minute – what could he have so close to the surface that would have hit her so hard?

"He fought me… he's hiding something, protecting something…" she whispered. "You… Sam, all I could see was you..."

In that moment Dean stirred in Sam's arms. With a weak groan, he lifted a hand and tried to reach up to the cut on his head. Sam caught Dean's hand, lowering it back to his chest, and shifted Dean against him so that he could see his entire face.

"Dean?"

Dean groaned again, his lashes brushing against his cheeks.

"Hey, Dean. That's it. Open your eyes," Sam encouraged softly.

"Sammy…"

"Yeah, I'm here, man. Open your eyes for me."

"…the hell happened?" Dean mumbled, his eyes still closed.

"You took a header to the bar floor, that's what happened," Sam said, brushing his fingers lightly over the crown of Dean's head.

"Dude, you wanna pet somthin' we'll get you that puppy," Dean grumbled, his voice slightly stronger, his hand reaching up to awkwardly brush Sam's hand away. He blinked his eyes slowly, and Sam watched the wide pupils slowly narrow to reveal the green of his brother's eyes as Dean focused on him.

"You okay, Sam?"

Sam shook his head with a small burst of a laugh. "Yeah, man, I'm okay."

"Your arm's bleedin'," Dean licked his lips, blinking slowly.

"Your head's bleeding," Sam lifted an eyebrow. "You remember what happened?"

Dean frowned. "Were we fightin' with someone?"

"Five someones," Brenna spoke up.

Sam watched as Dean blinked rapidly at the sound of her voice. He'd felt Dean's body jerk and tense in reaction. He shifted his eyes over to see Brenna sitting next to them. Sam watched, amazed, as the sleepy innocence was replaced by a guarded understanding in Dean's eyes.

"Oh," Dean said, then looked back at Sam. "Right." He pushed against Sam's chest. "Help me up, Sam."

Sam resisted, "Hey, Dean, wait a sec. You got hit pretty hard."

"So you'll stitch me up," Dean said, managing to push far enough away from Sam's chest to get himself into a semi-sitting, semi-slumped position.

"Dean," Brenna said gently. "I think you need to go to a hos—"

"No," Dean interrupted. "No hospitals. Now get me the hell up."

Sam sighed, shifted his feet underneath him and put his hands under Dean's arms, lifting his brother as he stood. Brenna stood with them. As soon as he was vertical, though, Dean's bravado deteriorated. With a weak "Whoa" he swayed back into Sam, his eyes closing, his hand reaching out for balance. Sam caught his shoulders.

"I got you," he said softly.

Dean nodded weakly and allowed Sam to brace him from behind.

"Where…" Sam looked at Brenna.

"I've got stuff up at the house," she sighed, admitting defeat in the Winchester Hospital Standoff.

She turned and led the way to the front door. Sam lifted Dean's arm across his shoulders, wrapping his left arm across Dean's back and around his waist. Dean hissed softly as Sam's arm pressed against his lower back. Sam remembered seeing James' boot connect, seeing Dean's back arch. He hooked his fingers in Dean's belt loops to hold his brother up, and ease the pressure on Dean's back.

Sam looked down at Dean's bowed head, watching as he forced himself to walk forward, to keep moving. Dean's feet were heavy, his stride slow. He wondered if Dean would push himself so hard if he weren't there. Did he put up this front, covering for any weakness, for the sake of Sam?

"You're thinking too loud, Sam," Dean said in a low voice. He didn't raise his head as they made their way across the dirt lot between the bar and the Kavanagh house.

"Do you do this because of me?"

"Gonna have to be more specific," Dean muttered, lifting his head slightly as they stepped up the stairs.

Sam balanced him as they stepped onto the porch and moved through the door. "You never let anyone take care of you."

"I don't need to be taken care of, Sam."

Sam just shook his head at that. _Yes, you do. _His brother was just as stubborn as his Dad had been. And, as far as Sam was concerned, Dean shared John's delusion of immortality. His father's habit of ignoring his own human frailty hadn't saved him from the demon in the end, and Dean had cheated death more than once… Sam pushed back the thought.

They followed Brenna into the small room just off of the kitchen. Another bed had been added on the other side of the fireplace. Stacked on it were several different piles of shop towels and machinery. Another truck was in the far corner of the room, lid open, clothes pulled out and tossed onto the floor around the base.

Dean allowed Sam to lower him onto the bed. He seemed to sink a bit when Sam released him, curling in on himself and wrapping his arms around his middle. Sam saw his hands shake as he buried them in the crooks of his arms. Sam looked up at Brenna. She was standing just inside the doorway, looking at them.

"You said you had –"

"Right," she blinked, then stepped out of the room.

Sam looked back at Dean, seeing his brother's eyes already on his face. "Not exactly a room full of happy memories," Dean said, lifting the corner of his mouth, then reaching up and touching the cut on his head with tentative fingers.

Sam offered him a small smile in agreement. His chest tightened and he pressed his hand against his sternum. Dean had died in this room. Brenna had saved him, but Sam had actually felt, physically _felt_, the pain of his brother's death. His heart thudded once, hard, beneath his fingers.

"Sammy? Hey, you okay?"

Sam met Dean's eyes. A bruise was appearing across Dean's cheekbone where James' foot had connected. Blood was drying on the side of his face and his neck. His eyebrows were raised, waiting for his answer.

"I'm okay," Sam said. "Just… "

"Winchester ghosts are the hardest ones to fight, man," Dean said in a low voice, dropping his eyes to the floor.

Sam made a sound that was part chuckle, part sob, and he saw Dean lift his eyes to his face just as Brenna returned. She carried with her a bowl of water and a white cloth, a metal kit, and clutched in her teeth, a small burlap bag. Sam stepped over to her quickly and took the bag from her mouth and the bowl of water from her hands before she sloshed it all over herself.

"This isn't the bag of dust that blows up banshees, is it?" he asked with a slight grin. She lifted her eyes to his, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't think so," he finished stepping over to Dean on the bed.

"Here," she said, handing Dean a bottle of pills.

"What are these?" he asked, staring at the bottle.

"Cyanide," she quipped. "It's aspirin, you idiot. What else would it be?"

Dean sighed, then unwrapped a hand from his chest to accept the bottle. He tapped four out in his hand and tossed them back. Sam raised an eyebrow, watching as Dean dry-swallowed the pain medication.

"Sam, clean him up," Brenna ordered. She emptied the bag of powder into the water, swirling it with her finger.

"What's that?" Dean asked.

"It will help with the healing," Brenna said, not looking at him. "Trust me on this." She turned to the other bed, set the metal kit down, and started taking things out one item at a time

"You're a mess, Dean," Sam said, shaking his head.

Dean sighed. "Yeah… whiskey always goes right to my head."

Sam chuckled and sat down next to his brother. He purposely sat close – partially to be able to reach Dean's wound easier, and partially to see what Dean would do, if he would move away. When Dean simply held still, allowing Sam's knee to stay touching his, Sam frowned. He wet the cloth and began to gently clean the side of Dean's head and his neck, paying special attention to the cut and the knot above his ear. Dean closed his eyes, and Sam saw him tighten his free hand into a fist, his other hand still wrapped around his ribs.

Dean didn't make a sound, but Sam had spent his life watching his brother -- knowing that if he didn't look for the tell-tale signs of pain, no one else would notice, and Dean would never confess. Over the years he'd discovered many ways to see the pain Dean worked so hard to mask, and one of those ways was the forced rhythm of Dean's breathing. Sam knew without a doubt that there was a song in Dean's head right now, and that he was counting the beats, matching his breathing to the rhythm so that he wouldn't give himself away.

"What is it?" he asked as he gently cleaned around the gash on Dean's head.

"What's what?" Dean asked, his teeth clenched.

"The song," Sam said, seeing Brenna lift her head and look over her shoulder at them.

Dean opened his eyes and slid them sideways to look at Sam, not turning his head. He didn't say anything for a long moment, and Sam remained silent, waiting. Dean frowned, then closed his eyes again.

"_Kashmir_."

"Long song," Sam commented, setting the now-pink towel in the bowl of rust-colored water.

"Yep," Dean said, stiffly straightening his back.

Brenna walked over and handed Sam the suture supplies. Sam looked at them, then back at Dean.

"Why don't you do this, and I'll go get our clothes?" Sam said.

"What?" Brenna and Dean demanded in unison, staring at Sam.

Sam blinked. "You got blood all over you, Dean. Brenna can handle this, I'll just go get –"

"You do it, Sam," they said at the same time, neither looking at the other.

Sam shifted his eyes from one to the other, confused. "What's with you two?" They both opened their mouths, and Sam lifted a hand. "One at a time."

Brenna's voice came out in a rush. "You're used to this, Sam."

"You stitched him up before," Sam countered.

"He was unconscious," she replied.

"Not the whole time," Dean muttered, looking at her hands, then at the floor.

"Oh," she sighed, her shoulders sagging. "Right."

Sam pressed his lips together. "Is this about… before?"

Dean lifted his head, tenderly prodding the cut and closing his eyes. "No," he sighed.

"It isn't?" Brenna asked, surprise evident in her voice.

Dean blinked at her. "Is it?"

"Oh for God's sake," Sam sighed. "Brenna, help my brother. Dean, don't look at her eyes. I'm going to get our clothes." He dug into the pocket of Dean's coat, pulling out the Impala keys.

"Sam," Dean called when Sam was almost out of the room.

"What?" Sam turned in the doorway, irritated.

"Nothin'… just, don't take too long." Dean pulled his eyebrows together, his expression serious. Sam pulled his head back slightly, realized that Dean had been telling the truth. It wasn't about being alone with Brenna… it was about being without Sam.

"You bet."

Getting their stuff from the Impala proved to be trickier than he'd thought. He hadn't realized how often Dean had grabbed the extra bag since he'd broken his hand. Nonetheless, he was back in the house with their duffels of clothes and one bag of weapons inside of fifteen minutes. When he walked back through the door, he heard Brenna's voice, sharp and irritated.

"It wasn't as if I did it on purpose!"

"What, I'm just supposed to trust you on that?"

Sam stopped inside the door, out of eyesight, listening.

"Yes!"

"Sorry, sweetheart, I don't trust blindly."

"You don't _trust _at all."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't trust anyone, Dean. You don't even trust Sam!"

Sam caught his breath, tightening his grip on the handles of the bags.

"The hell I don't!"

"You're afraid of him."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Brenna," Dean's voice had gone cold. Sam breathed shallowly, waiting. He registered that Dean didn't deny what she said. _Dean's afraid of me?_

"You're afraid of something. That much I saw."

"You shouldn't have _seen_ anything," Dean growled.

"Again. Not on purpose."

"You knew what would happen," Dean accused.

"I was trying to help you!" Brenna raged. "It's not like I'd planned on you being here."

"Well, damn lucky for you I was!"

"I would have gotten out of it."

"How?! They had you tied up, Brenna. If S-sam and I hadn't –"

Sam heard Dean's voice falter and his heart dropped. He stepped forward, still not within eye line of the two in the other room. He paused when he heard Brenna's voice, low, soothing.

"Easy, whoa, it's okay, Dean. You're okay." All of the anger had drained from her voice.

Sam moved forward into the room. He saw Dean on his knees in the center of the room, bent over at the waist, Brenna on the floor next to him, her arms wrapped around him. He was pale, one hand braced on the floor, the other clutching Brenna's forearm. Sam saw that Brenna had managed to stitch his cut and had gotten him to remove his bloody shirt, which was in a pile next to the bed.

"Where the hell is Sam," Dean muttered weakly, his eyes on the worn wooden floor.

"I'm here, Dean," Sam said softly, stepping forward. "What happened?" he set down the duffels, addressing Brenna, but his eyes were on his brother. He leaned down and put his hand on Dean's bare shoulder.

"We – uh," Brenna began, having the grace to look guilty. "We were talking. He just got a little dizzy, I think."

Dean raised his head to meet Sam's eyes, and for a second, Sam thought he saw something reflecting there that he hadn't seen since that brief moment on the side of the road, after they'd killed the zombie and left Lawrence. _Dad's dead because of me… _

"What took you so long?" Dean tried to push Brenna's arm away, but she held onto him until Sam was able to take some of Dean's weight.

Sam pulled Dean to his feet, swallowing the immediate smart-ass comment that came to his lips and opted instead for sincerity. "It was hard to carry it all with my cast."

"Oh," Dean said, moving to the bed on wobbly legs. "Sorry, man. I wasn't thinking."

Sam dug into Dean's duffel and handed him a clean black T-shirt. Dean took it and as he pulled it over his head, Sam caught sight of the large bruise coloring his lower back. He winced.

"Dean," he said, stopping him from pulling the shirt all the way down.

"What?"

"Your back, man," he said. "That bruise looks bad."

Dean grimaced. "Yeah, I think that bastard was a soccer player," he muttered. He glanced at Brenna. "Sorry… _Futball_."

"It's all boys playing with balls to me," she retorted lifting an eyebrow. "But I think I have something that will help that bruise."

She turned back to the kit, then approached them with a bottle of clear liquid and some gauze pads.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Vodka?"

"Witch hazel," she said.

"_Witch _hazel?" Sam and Dean echoed at the same time.

"Don't even start," she said. "Sam, when I'm done here, we'll take a look at that arm." She wetted a pad and leaned close to press it on Dean's back

He hissed at her touch, then slowly relaxed. She continued to ease the liquid into his bruise until Sam saw Dean start to slump forward, his eyes drifting closed. He rested his forearms on his knees and dropped his head. After another minute, Sam nodded to Brenna and she pulled away. Sam dropped the base of Dean's shirt. Dean lifted his head and blinked heavily, trying to keep his eyes open. Standing, Sam cupped the back of Dean's neck and carefully eased him back on the bed.

"Wha—"

"Dean, just rest for a minute, okay?"

"No, Sam, I–"

"Just take it easy," Sam lifted Dean's legs by the knees and helped him stretch out.

"Don't want to sleep," Dean mumbled, blinking slow, exhaustion, pain, and painkillers starting to defeat even his indomitable will.

"I know, Dean," Sam whispered. "I'll wake you in about four hours."

Dean forced his eyes open. "Gimme the keys."

Sam pulled his eyebrows together. "What?"

"To the Impala. I want the keys."

"What for?"

Dean leveled his eyes on Sam, and he saw that look again, the look that sucked the air from his lungs and turned his stomach to ice. That look that said _I can't lose you_…

"I'm not gonna go anywhere, Dean," Sam said, his voice harder than he had intended. Brenna was right. Dean didn't trust him.

"Keys, Sam," Dean insisted, keeping his eyes open with an obvious effort.

Sam pressed his lips together, pulling in a breath. He looked at Dean. Dean looked back. He could see that they were at a moment they'd never been to before. If there was one thing that he knew beyond doubt it was that Dean believed in him. When he didn't believe in himself, Dean was there, supporting, pushing, encouraging. He grew up with that faith and as he looked at his brother's pain-filled green eyes he realized that he'd taken it for granted… and he might be losing it.

"Fine," he said, digging the keys out of his jeans pocket. He leaned over, picked up Dean's hand, putting them in his palm and closing his fingers around them. When he stepped back, he saw that Dean's eyes had closed. He stood looking down at him until he heard Dean's breathing even out into a steady rhythm of sleep.

www

"I heard you," Sam said, sitting across from Brenna at the table in the center of the room between the kitchen and the bedroom where Dean lay. He kept the door open so that he could listen for Dean, and so that Dean could see him if he woke up. The bandage Brenna had wrapped around the shallow cut on his arm was tight. He rubbed at it, flexing his arm.

"Heard me what?" Brenna asked.

She had her laptop open in front of her, eyes on the screen, her hands around a pewter mug. Sam could smell the coffee. He hated that smell now. He didn't think he'd ever be able to smell coffee and not think of seeing his father, lying so still on the floor of the hospital room. It was the last thing John has said to him, the last thing he'd asked of him. Coffee.

"Talking with Dean earlier," Sam said. He could hear music playing softly from behind them on the counter. It sounded like Zeppelin's _Over the Hills and Far Away_.

"I know," she flicked her eyes up at him. "I could tell by the way you talked to him."

"You like Zeppelin?" he asked, surprised.

"Yeah," she nodded.

"I swear Dean's worn out about ten of their cassette tapes," Sam mused.

Brenna smiled. "I always have to have music playing," she said. "I hear too much when it's quiet."

"He doesn't trust me," Sam said suddenly, leaning over and putting his head in his left hand, resting his cast on the table. He traced a figure eight on the wood table with the index finger of his right hand. He heard Brenna sigh, heard the click of the laptop screen as it closed.

"Sam," she said. He didn't look at her. "Look at me."

Keeping his head down, he raised his eyes to look at her through his lashes.

"Jesus, you look twelve years old when you pout," she said in a soft voice.

He pulled his brows together. "I'm not pouting."

"Bullshit," she raised an eyebrow. He lifted his head, cocking it to the side, challenging her.

"Sam, don't pay attention to what I was saying to Dean," she said, shaking her head.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because I didn't get the whole picture," she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I just got snatches… and I was trying to get a rise out of him. Get him angry enough to tell me something."

"You weren't making it up, though," he said, still looking at her through his lashes. "You said he was hiding something…"

"I also said he was protecting something," she countered dropping her chin and meeting his shadowed stare. "He is afraid of something, Sam. I don't know what it is. But I don't think it's you…"

"You don't _think_?"

"Well, he pushed me out before I could see much else."

"What do you mean, pushed you out? He was unconscious."

"Yeah, well," she rolled her neck rubbing at the back of her head, flipping out her wild curls. "He's damn strong, your brother."

Sam looked down. "He's had to be," he muttered.

"What the hell happened to you guys?"

"It's a long story," Sam said, his heart clutching at the thought of recounting what they'd been through. "Besides, we're not here to talk about us. We're here to help you. Help Declan."

"Sam," she said softly. "Don't push me away. Tell me whatever it is that's happened hasn't changed you that much."

At that he straightened up, looking at her. "What do you mean?"

"Something has… has touched you," she said, her eyes sad. "Something that is… gutting Dean."

Sam felt his chin tremble. He opened his mouth, but closed it again. He didn't know what to say. He wanted her to know, but he didn't want to have to tell her. He glanced to the shadowed room where he could see Dean sleeping, head canted to the side, one arm across his chest, face pulled into a frown. He swallowed and looked back at Brenna.

"It's… it's a lot," he warned her, hoping she understood what he was asking her to do.

She licked her lips and nodded, reaching for his hand. He knew she would be seeing it through his eyes, but something told him just her knowing would somehow help them. Help Dean. And he knew that there was no way Dean would ever offer her this information willingly. He barely spoke about it with Sam.

When Brenna wrapped her slim fingers around his hand, he looked at her, pulling back slightly at the sight of her predatory eyes. He felt that same sensation of the air being sucked from the room, and suddenly memories of the events that sent their lives spiraling out of control replaced Brenna's face.

As he witnessed the events that had shaped their survival over the last few months, he saw one constant thread amidst the agony of losing his father, surviving his visions, fearing his future: Dean. Dean fighting, Dean hurting, Dean holding him, Dean saving him, Dean teasing him, Dean begging him…

When Brenna released his hand, Sam was trembling. He blinked rapidly, surprised to feel wetness on his cheeks. He couldn't quite catch his breath. He lifted his left hand and wiped away the tears that had left a salty trail, watching Brenna do the same.

"Oh," she said, sitting back.

"I told you it was a lot," Sam whispered with a shaky smile.

She just nodded, then got up and went over to the kitchen counter. _Since I've Been Loving You_ was playing. She turned the music up, standing directly in front of the speakers, and leaned her forehead against the cabinet above a set of wine glasses that hung by their stems.

"Brenna –"

"I just need a minute, Sam," she said softly.

He sat, looking at the table, waiting quietly. Next to her laptop he saw a worn, brown accordion file held together with a frayed piece of bailing twine. Cocking his head to the side he reached over for it, pulling it to him. Glancing up at Brenna he saw her back was still facing him. Sam knew he should ask before prying, but over a year on the road with Dean as his constant companion had affected his code of ethics a bit.

He opened the file, pulling out the papers and glancing at each of them quickly before retrieving the next. It looked like a series of lists. Lists of names, lists of locations... One looked to be a list of horses and breeding patterns, another was a tally sheet of funds. Then he pulled out a list that caught his attention and his breath in one glance.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

"What?" Brenna turned and approached the table. "What are you doing, Sam?"

"I know what this is for," Sam breathed, not looking away from the list in his hand.

"Tell me," Brenna's voice was suddenly hard. He looked up at her. She was standing behind the chair she'd recently vacated, gripping the back until her knuckles turned white.

Sam swallowed. "These are ingredients for a summoning spell. A pretty powerful one."

"How do you know that?"

"'Cause our Dad used one," said Dean from the doorway of the bedroom.

Sam jumped and crumpled the paper in his hand. He mirrored Brenna's rapid head turn.

"Dammit, Dean," Sam cried out. "You scared the shit outta me."

"That's right, isn't it?" Dean was leaning on the door jam, one hand wrapped around his middle, his eyes cloudy with sleep and narrowed in pain. He was looking at Sam with an unreadable expression.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "What are you doing up?"

"I always wondered how he got that stuff into the hospital," Dean said, dropping his gaze to the floor. "Didn't figure on it being you, though."

"He said it was for protection," Sam protested. "I didn't know until I got to Bobby's."

"But you brought it anyway," Dean said, not looking up, not raising his voice above a murmur.

Sam didn't know where Dean was going with this. He was still dizzy from the memories Brenna had pulled from him. "Yeah," he whispered, licking his lips. "Yeah, I brought it."

"But… you were pissed at him, weren't you, Sammy?" Dean seemed to be looking for confirmation of a memory that Sam knew he couldn't have had. Dean hadn't been there. He'd been down the hall, two minutes from flat-lining.

Sam cocked his head to the side, watching Dean stare at the floor, trying to read the expression on his face. "Yeah, man, I was pissed at him. I thought he was planning to take on the demon…"

"Stupid, macho showdown…" Dean muttered, his eyebrows pulled together. He reached up with his free hand and rubbed at the back of his head, furrows of confusion on his face.

"What did you just say?" Sam had felt his heart skip a beat at Dean's words.

He clearly remembered yelling those words to John. He remembered the fight. He remembered wondering how far it would go this time without Dean there to intervene. And he remembered the glass, flying off of John's tray, shattering.

"What?" Dean looked up, his eyes cloudy.

"What did you just say, Dean?"

Dean shook his head, blinking. "Nothin'… I think I was… I don't know. Dreaming. Or something." He looked over at Brenna, then back at Sam. "What are you guys doing, anyway? Why didn't you come wake me up?"

Sam glanced at the clock in the kitchen. "It's barely been an hour, Dean. I said I'd come back in four."

"Oh," Dean moved further into the room, pulled out a chair, and dropped into it. "Well, what have we got?"

"Go back and rest, Dean," Brenna spoke up, her hands closing over the accordion file and pulling it away from Sam, closer to her.

"I'm fine," Dean shook his head and reached for the papers stacked next to Sam.

"You need –"

"I said I'm fine," he snapped at her.

"It's not like we're going to leave you here, Dean," Brenna said quietly.

Sam shot surprised eyes in her direction, then looked back at his brother. Dean lifted his green eyes to meet hers, his gaze direct, unflinching. Sam watched as a silent battle of wills took place in front of him. Brenna's eyes remained her own unique shade of green-gold, but she stared back at Dean with an intensity that would have shaken Sam. Dean didn't look away. He didn't blink. He waited, his expression seeming to say _I can do this all day_…

To Sam's surprise, Brenna blinked first, looking away. Dean nodded and sat back. She shook her head, pulling her bottom lip in and chewing on it.

"You guys just need to do it and get it over with," Sam muttered, looking down.

"Who says we haven't?" they asked in unison, both looking at Sam.

Sam's eyes shot up to Dean first, then back to Brenna. Their unapologetic stares caught him by surprise. He looked back to Dean who grinned at him.

"Take it easy, Sam," he said, reaching over to clap a hand on his arm. "We're here to do a job, right?"

"Uh," Sam's mouth was dry. "Right."

"What else you got there?"

Brenna sighed, then shoved the accordion file at Dean.

"I found this when I got here," she said. "I was… away," she shifted her eyes from Dean to the file and kept them there. "I'd left this place behind not long after I saw you guys in New Orleans. Long story," she glanced briefly up at Sam, who offered her a rueful smile. "Couple of nights ago, I heard Declan call to me…"

"Wait, what?" Dean interrupted. "You mean, he didn't, like, _call you_ call you?"

"No," she shook her head. "Since… since I was able to, um, connect you and Sam that day in New Orleans, I've been practicing."

"Practicing what?" Dean looked wary.

"I don't know… my abilities. Whatever druid thing I inherited," she looked at Dean and Sam saw the challenge there. Dean closed his eyes, resting his head in his hand like it was suddenly too heavy to balance on his neck. He waved his fingers at her, asking silently for her to continue.

"Anyway, I heard him – like I heard you in the bar," she looked at Dean.

Sam looked at Dean. "Huh?"

Dean lifted a shoulder, silent.

"She heard you? What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know," Dean grumbled. "I couldn't get you to look at me, Sam," Dean said softly.

"You try _talking_?" Sam was angry. He couldn't figure out exactly why, but the idea that Dean had called to_ Brenna_ – silently or otherwise – and not to Sam… coupled with the fact that she'd _heard _him… bothered Sam more than he wanted to admit.

Dean rolled his head on his hand to look at Sam. "I did try, but… Look. I think we're missing the point here," he looked back at Brenna. "Which is…"

"Which is," she echoed. "That I knew he was in trouble. Like real trouble."

"As opposed to the fake kind?"

Sam shot Dean an irritated glance, intending to hush him, but stopped himself when he saw that his brother once again looked pale, drawn. He was holding his head up in his hands and Sam was convinced that if it weren't for that, it would be resting on the table. The smartass comments seemed to be his only line of defense against the exhaustion and pain that were obviously threatening to overtake him. Sam didn't know what was keeping Dean going other than sheer will.

"Well, he's been… betting, apparently," Brenna sighed, pulling some of the papers from the accordion file.

"You do all this?" Sam asked.

"No, actually," she chuckled mirthlessly. "Declan did. He may be an idiot, but he's an organized idiot, I'll give him that. He's been going to the tracks, from what I can tell. And losing."

"The tracks?" Dean asked.

"Horses," Sam clarified.

"Oh."

Sam pulled some of the other papers toward him, looking through them. He watched Dean out of the corner of his eyes. Dean held very still except for the ring finger on his right hand which was tapping out a rhythm with a measured patience. As Sam rifled through the papers from the file, looking for something to help them find Declan and what the old man had gotten himself into, he suddenly realized that Dean was tapping in time with _Stairway to Heaven_. He wondered briefly if Brenna knew about Dean's method of dealing with pain, and if she'd chosen Zeppelin on purpose.

"Eamon said that Declan owed someone bigger than him," Sam muttered. "Which means nothing really, since we don't know who Eamon even is."

"I do," Brenna said. Sam lifted his eyes to her face, noticing how still she'd suddenly become. "He's part of the IRA in the states. He, um, helps supply them, I guess."

"IRA?"

"Irish Repub—"

"I know what it is, Sam," Dean cut him off. "I meant… how the hell does Declan find the IRA in Blackroot?"

Brenna didn't look at him. She simply smiled sadly, her fingers rubbing the edges of a piece of paper. "You'd be surprised what you can find if you look under enough rocks. My Da… he lived in a rock garden most of his life."

Sam remained silent, realizing, not for the first time, how little they actually knew about Brenna or her family. Other than her druid ancestry, which had come to light only when the truth of the banshee had been revealed, they knew only that she'd been raised by her grandfather and ran the bar/motel with him. Until recently.

In the silence, Zeppelin wailed in the background.

_And if you listen very hard, the tune will come to you at last, when all are one and one is all, to be a rock and not to roll._

"What is it?" Dean asked her in a gentle voice when she didn't continue. Sam had only heard him use that voice with one other person: him.

"This… summoning spell," Brenna lifted her eyes to Sam. "What does it do? Besides the obvious, I mean."

"Well," Sam sighed, picking that paper up again, looking at the familiar words. "Basically, whoever, or… um, whatever, they want will appear when the spell is completed." He looked over at Dean. "Eamon said that the spirit was a double-edged sword…"

Dean nodded, his finger continuing to beat out a Morse code on the worn table top. "He also said that they wanted to be paid back…"

Sam sat back and looked at his brother without really seeing him, his eyes inward, searching the database of his mind. "What kind of spirit could possibly help Declan repay a debt?"

Dean shook his head, rubbing his forehead in obvious pain. Sam winced in sympathy. He opened his mouth to ask Dean if he was okay, when Dean dropped his hand and straightened, picking up another list from the top of the pile next to Sam. Sam saw him frown at it. Dean turned it quickly to look at the back and Sam caught sight of the front sheet. It was in Gaelic. He reached across the table and handed it to Brenna.

"What does this say?"

She looked at it, her confusion evident. "It's a list of… endearments, I think. Pulse of my heart, my love, my soul… wait… this is odd."

"What?" Sam leaned forward.

"Says, _hanamacha goid_."

"Oh, well, that _is_ odd," Dean said, sarcasm evident in his voice.

She ignored him. "Literally that means _steal soul_. I have no idea –"

"Holy shit," Sam breathed. He sat back, blinking. "Soul-stealer."

He suddenly looked at Dean as Dean lifted his head and met Sam's eyes. "Wraith," they said together.

"Um…what?" Brenna chimed in.

"Sam, where's Dad's journal?"

"Your duffel," Sam answered. He started to rise.

"I'll get it," Dean said, pushing himself to his feet. Sam found himself holding his breath, expecting Dean to topple over the moment he was upright. To his relief, Dean made it from the table to the duffel and back without falling over. Once seated again, he handed the journal to Sam. Sam pulled his eyebrows together in a question.

"Too hard to focus," Dean muttered, carefully rubbing at his temple, near the cut, his silver ring catching the dull light from the lamp above.

"'K," Sam said, watching Dean with narrowed eyes.

Dean's eyes were on the table, his breathing slightly rapid, his fingers tapping the rhythm to _Heartbreaker_ as the song played softly in the background. Sam flipped the journal open to the page he wanted. Since John's death he'd read the journal so many times he practically had it memorized. He knew right where he wanted to look. Pulling his eyes from Dean's face, he found the passage in the journal he was looking for.

"Wraiths are spirit-like creatures that must be summoned or banished. They act as a guardian over a person or a thing. Only by summoning the wraith can you find the item, and only by banishing the wraith can you retrieve it."

"How does a wraith get attached to the person or thing?" Brenna asked.

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Curse, spell, something like that."

"So… why is it called a soul-stealer?" she asked, her jaw tight, her eyes on Sam.

Sam sighed. "Because that's how it kills. It… sucks out your life force. Your will to live. It's not the only spirit or witch that does that, but it's the most vicious."

"Why? What do you mean?" Brenna asked, her voice wary.

"It…" Sam paused, looked at Dean, at the journal, then back at Brenna. "It purposefully causes pain as it kills. Others just suck out your soul to feed and then discard you. The wraith…"

"Intends to cause pain," she finished.

Sam nodded.

"Sam," Dean said suddenly. "Tell me there's a banishing spell somewhere in there."

Sam knew the answer, but looked through the pages of the journal John had dedicated to wraiths anyway. "No, man."

"That seem weird to you?" Dean tilted his head.

Sam shrugged. "We ever have to hunt one before?"

"Not that I remember. But… I just find it hard to believe that Dad didn't…"

Dean stopped and Sam felt the echoing pang from what Dean didn't say. He missed John all the time, but it was times like these when he really felt his absence. He closed the journal and began to rifle through the papers on the table. Declan had written most of his lists in English, but some were in Gaelic, and some a mixture of the two. Sam looked through each page carefully, handing them to Brenna when he didn't understand. He shifted his eyes periodically to Dean.

Dean didn't look at either of them. He seemed to be trying to stare a hole through the wooden table. Sam was waiting for him to give in, to just admit to the pain he was in. Sam knew Dean was hanging on by his fingertips. He could tell just by the way he held his shoulders, by the infrequent banter, by the simple _not Dean_ way he was acting.

He started to say something to Dean about going to rest when Brenna spoke up.

"Huh," she looked up at Dean, saw that he hadn't raised his head, frowned, then looked over at Sam. "You ever hear of the Ardagh?"

Sam shook his head.

"It's a chalice… like the Celtic Holy Grail. Supposed to be made of pure gold and be adorned with, um… emeralds, I think. At least according to this." She held up a paper.

"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me," Dean spoke up, lifting his head. "_That's_ what they're after?"

"Looks like," Brenna nodded, not looking at Dean.

"Friggin' Ireland Jones," Dean muttered.

Sam sat back. "So… Declan summons the wraith. He had the right ingredients. He had to have taken the summoning and banishing spells with him, wherever he went."

"Sam," Dean was shaking his head. "He called Dad two days ago."

"And I, uh, heard him about that same time," Brenna said, sounding unsure as she spoke it if they believed her.

"If he didn't do it just right," Dean said, looking at Sam. "What did his message say?"

"Something about bringing something back… he set it loose, Dean."

"Set it loose, and called Dad for help. But… what I don't get is where is he now? He called Dad, knew he screwed up the spell…" Dean frowned at the table. "I mean, he had to know those guys would come looking for him."

"And… why wouldn't he want us to come?" Sam wondered.

"What?" Brenna asked.

"His message to Dad… he said whatever Dad did to not let us come."

"So of course the first thing you did was head this way," Brenna muttered, shaking her head.

"Well, what did you expect us to do?" Dean snapped at her. Sam looked at his brother, surprised by the emotion he heard in that sentence. "I know you know Dad's… gone."

"I know," she said, staring back at him. "But there had to have been a reason Declan said that… maybe you should have listened."

Sam looked back at Brenna. Her voice increased in volume as she spoke, and her eyes were hot. She was matching Dean angry glare for angry glare. Sam held his breath.

"Right," Dean scoffed. "A reason. From the same crazy Irishman who lied to everyone – even you – about the banshee and almost got us all killed."

"He had a reason for that, too, Dean!"

"I don't get why you're defending him."

"Because he's my family!"

"It isn't like he's given one thought to protecting you!"

"He didn't even know I was here, Dean. What do you want from me?"

"How 'bout a little honesty, huh?" Dean yelled. His whole body was tense, his hands fisted, his eyes snapping as they stared at Brenna. "Declan screwed up! He made a deal with some dangerous men, and managed to put you in danger _again_."

Brenna stood up, shoving her chair back from the table. "So, what, Dean? I'm supposed to just leave him to his own fate? Is that right?"

"Maybe!" Dean stood as well, leaning on the table. Sam watched, surprised at the tremble he saw in Dean's chin, the jump of the muscle in his cheek. "Maybe you _should_ let him figure this out for himself. Maybe that's why he didn't want us to come – because he knew you'd get involved. Maybe he's trying to keep you safe."

"A minute ago he's letting me walk blindfolded into the lion's den, and now he's martyring himself to keep me safe?" Brenna's face was red and her hands were fisted at her sides.

Sam looked from her to his brother, waiting for Dean's logic to get him out of this word trap.

"Oh, hell, Brenna, I don't know," Dean said, his voice an octave lower. He scratched the back of his head, then rubbed his mouth. He took a step away from the table, turning toward the wall behind him, resting a hand on it, his arm bracing the rest of his body.

"That's what you think, isn't it?" she said softly, her head tilting to the side.

Sam registered the change in her tone. He held very still, realizing that they'd forgotten about him. He thought about what she'd said earlier; he wanted to see what she got out of Dean.

"What?" Dean snapped, turning from the wall.

"You think if you and Sam hadn't gone after John… that if you'd stayed at Bobby's with the Colt… that Sam would have been spared. The demon wouldn't have found him… and you wouldn't be faced with –"

"Don't," Dean interrupted. "Don't say it."

Brenna was speaking slowly, as if she wasn't aware she was talking out loud. "He told you to stay… he told you not to come and you did anyway. You saved your Dad, and… you think…"

"Stop," Dean said in a low voice. "Just… stop."

"Dean?" Sam whispered.

He felt like Brenna had scooped his lungs from his chest with her words. Dean looked at him and for a moment Sam saw his brother's heart in his eyes – raw, bleeding, barely beating. Then as he'd managed to do so many times over the last months, Dean emptied his eyes of all emotion until they were simply mirrors of green in his tense features.

"Dean," Brenna said, drawing his attention to her. "I have to find him. I don't know if I can save him… but I have to find him."

Sam watched Dean release his breath and with it the trembling anger that had seemed to overshadow his logical thought. He didn't know what to do with what he'd just heard. He didn't know what Brenna meant by his being spared. Dean had been on a mission that day. Nothing could have stopped him from getting their Dad back… _He said I had to save you…_

Sam had no idea what do to next. He simply stared at his brother. He wanted Dean to look back at him. He needed the balance, the reassurance of Dean's eyes. The look that said _as long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you_. He believed those words. And he suddenly needed Dean to say them again.

Dean blinked and nodded once as though coming to a conclusion. Sam watched with his heart in his throat as Dean swayed suddenly, reaching out blindly for the back of the chair.

"Hey," Brenna started, stepping forward.

"I'm okay," Dean pushed her away with his words. "I'm fine."

He sat down slowly. Sam stared at him. He was prepared to stare until his eyes dried up and fell from his head if that's what it took for Dean to look back at him. He couldn't seem to draw in a complete breath. _Dean… please…_

As though he'd managed to tap into Brenna's perceptive powers, Dean raised his eyes to meet Sam's. This time they weren't exactly empty; Sam saw himself reflecting back at him. Dean's heart had been pushed back down deep behind his internal wall. He offered Sam a tip of his chin, causing Sam to mimic him. Brenna dropped back into her chair.

"Any idea where we start to look?" Dean asked him.

Sam swallowed a sigh, almost afraid to look away from him. Two weeks ago, all he could think about was leaving Dean – getting away, finding out what The Demon had in store for him, finding the other children like him. He'd been convinced that he needed to do that without Dean; it was _his_ destiny. He was the only one that could change it. But the minute he'd gotten in over his head, he'd called Dean.

"Uh," Sam started to rifle blindly through the papers in front of him. He was having trouble thinking. He couldn't get the image of Dean tied to the chair, being held by knifepoint as bait out of his head. He flicked a couple of papers off to the side.

"I, uh…"

Dean had found him. When Sam needed him, Dean had found him. Dean had saved him. Saved Ava. _He said I might have to kill you, Sammy…_

"Sam," Dean's voice was low, steady. "Sammy, look at me."

Sam lifted his eyes. He met Dean's look and suddenly he could breathe again. His world balanced.

"We're okay," Dean said. "You get me?"

Sam nodded. Suddenly he realized what he had to do. He reached for Brenna's laptop. "Brenna, does Declan's phone have a GPS?"

When she didn't answer, he looked up. She was staring at a piece of paper.

"What?" Dean asked.

"This is a list of names," Brenna said, her voice paper-thin. "Names and amounts. I-I think it's the people Declan owes."

"Okay…" Sam prompted.

"There's a name here… Jack Collins. He's the… the _big man_. The one Declan owes that's more powerful than Eamon."

"How do you know this?" Sam asked.

"Because… when I was a kid, he saved my life."

Dean's eyebrows went up, and Sam sat back. Brenna didn't elaborate, just stared at the paper.

"Brenna?" Dean said softly.

She lifted her head. As she looked at them, Sam saw her pupils widen, the colored irises stretching until her large eyes were once again those of a bird's. Her hand began to shake and her jaw clenched. Without warning, the wine glasses in the kitchen shattered.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean exclaimed, ducking instinctively.

Sam immediately realized why the broken bottles in the bar had been such a puzzle. It appeared that they'd been hit by something, but the unblemished mirror confused him. Now he knew… it had been Brenna.

"Brenna," Sam said, trying for a soothing tone. "I don't get it…"

She blinked, her predatory gaze unnerving. "He saved my life," she repeated, her voice trembling. "After he killed my parents."

Dean stared at her a moment, his fingers slowly curling into a fist. He suddenly stood, stepping away from the table and walking with a resolute stride into the bedroom, returning with their bag of weapons. He dropped it on the table with a jarring thud. Sam looked up at Dean, surprised. It was as though Brenna's words had triggered something inside of his brother.

Dean's color was back, his green eyes dark. If Sam couldn't see the darkening bruise on his brother's cheekbone and the stitches on the side of his head… if he didn't know that his brother hadn't slept more than four hours in the last seventy-two… if he hadn't watched that whiskey bottle shatter, hadn't watched Dean fall to his knees… he would never know anything was wrong with him. His brother's mask was firmly in place. His jaw was set, his hands steady.

"Dean, what are you –"

"You track that phone, Sam," he said. "You find where he is."

Sam's fingers were already flying over the keyboard. "What are you going to do?"

Dean pulled out one of their shotguns, ejected the spent shells, checked the triggers, and broke the barrel so that he could look down the empty chambers.

"I'm going to kick some ass."

www

a/n: _Just so you know… everybody gets bloody in this story… no one is safe from harm. But it's purposeful. In my mind, the boys don't really reveal their hearts until they're vulnerable… and what makes one more vulnerable than pain?_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1 _

_a/n: I so appreciate your feedback and comments. I mostly appreciate that you're reading this story! I think I would write even if my stories did nothing more than collect dust on my hard drive, but you guys feed a hunger in me I didn't know existed before I discovered fanfic. I'm so grateful to each one of you._

_Toward the end of this chapter is a racier scene. PG-13. I wanted to warn you in case reading something like that would bother you. I've kept it tasteful and purposeful to the plot, but, well, there you go. I hope you enjoy the read! _

_E – Thanks for everything. The first virtual glass of wine is on me._

_Kelly – You are indispensable. Never leave me._

_www_

_I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three. Author Unknown_

Into the Fire – Chapter 3

He watched Brenna blink as if coming awake from a long nap. Her eyes kept their wide, predatory gaze. "He saved my life," she repeated, her voice trembling. "After he killed my parents."

Dean stared at her a moment, curling the fingers of his right hand into a fist. _Son of a bitch_, he thought. _No way is this happening… _Something close to adrenaline shot through him. He felt powerful and weak at the same time. He felt the strength that always flowed through him when he had a mission, a purpose clearly laid out in front of him, but at the same time, he felt the dizzy weakness stemming from the pain in his head. He glanced at Brenna's eyes once more, watching as they returned to normal and looked almost innocent in her fine-boned face. His decision was made.

He pushed himself to his feet, stepping away from the table and walking into the bedroom with a measured rhythm of steps. One foot in front of the other. An equal-lengthed stride. That was the key to staying on his feet. To keeping his knees from buckling in a reaction to the cadence of pain radiating through his body as a result of the gash in his head. _Damn Irish bastards and their whiskey bottle…_ Grabbing the bag of weapons from the foot of the bed that was covered in shop towels and engine parts, he returned to the table and dropped it with a jarring thud in front of the chair he'd recently vacated. He'd lost too much… Sam had lost too much… Brenna should be spared. She shouldn't have to lose the only family she had left.

He saw Sam look up at him, but he ignored the probing eyes. Sam always wanted to know more than he needed to know. He was always asking. Even if he never said a word… his eyes were always asking. Dean sometimes hid from Sam's eyes.

"Dean, what are you –"

"You track that phone, Sam," he interrupted him. "You find where he is."

Sam's fingers were already flying over the keyboard. "What are you going to do?"

Dean pulled out one of their shotguns, ejected the spent shells, checked the triggers, and broke the barrel so that he could look down the empty chambers. He wasn't going to let them get away with it, that's what he was going to do. He was going to stop the pain in someone's life – even if it couldn't be in theirs – he was going to goddamn save _somebody _from the pain he felt every day of his life, that's what he was going to do.

"I'm going to kick some ass."

"What?" Sam's voice was incredulous. "Are you nuts?"

Dean lifted his eyes briefly to his brother's, raising an eyebrow as he reached into the duffel for their homemade rock salt shells. Sam's eyes were dark in their anger. He was staring at Dean like he wanted to belt him while at the same time looking like he was afraid Dean was going to fall over.

"Dean." Sam's insistence was unapologetic. "You can barely stand up."

Dean looked down at the weapon in his hand as he shoved the shells in. He lifted a shoulder. "Doesn't matter."

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Brenna push away from the table, stand quietly, and move into the kitchen, the glass from the shattered wine glasses crunching beneath her boots.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sam snapped. His hands were poised above the keyboard of the laptop, but Dean could see that his whole focus was on him. Dean set the loaded shotgun down next to the duffel and reached into the bag for another.

"It means that we have a job to do, Sam."

He didn't think it needed more of an explanation. It was the way of their lives: evil found, evil dies. It was that simple. It was how John raised them. He'd trained them to be expert marksmen, to field-dress near-mortal wounds, to be invisible if necessary. He'd trained them to be hunters, warriors. Somehow in the middle of all of that, Sam had managed to learn how to also be a person, but Dean didn't know if that level of humanity was inside of him.

He heard Brenna in the kitchen banging cabinet doors. He heard water running. He heard pots clatter against the stove. He set the second shotgun, now loaded with rock salt, down on the table and glanced briefly up at Sam before reaching into the duffel for his .45. Sam was looking at him with shadowed eyes, his lips pressed together, his left hand clenching and releasing as it rested on the keyboard. Dean could practically hear him thinking. Sam was usually very still, the eye of Dean's hurricane. Except for when he was working a potentially impossible problem in his head. He'd been that way since he was little. He couldn't hold still until the problem was solved to his satisfaction. Dean knew that at the moment, _he_ was Sam's problem.

"What it is, Sam?"

"Nothing," Sam grumbled, but didn't look away.

Dean shrugged. Sam _wanted _him to ask. So he wouldn't. It was the best way to get Sam to talk. "Whatever."

"Dude, we don't even know what we're going up against!" Sam snapped.

"You're research boy," Dean shrugged, shoving a clip into the base of the .45's grip and flicking the safety on. "Go research already."

"So you can go off and get yourself killed?" Sam argued.

Dean set the gun down. That surprised him. "What?"

"Just a couple of hours ago," Sam said, a tremor in his voice, "You were unconscious and bleeding in my arms."

A pot was slammed onto the stove in the kitchen. Dean could hear _Black Dog_ echoing over the tension in the room.

"Sam," Dean said, leaning forward on the table, his arms braced to hold him balanced. "I've told you. I'm fine."

"I'm so _sick_ of you saying that!" Sam almost yelled. "You say it all the time, Dean. And it's not true."

Dean pulled away from Sam's glare, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. "You add mind reading to your list of abilities?"

"No, but—"

"But nothing. I say I'm fine, I'm fine. End of story."

"No, Dean–"

"You got a location for Declan's phone or not?" Dean was beginning to lose his patience. Sam was nothing if not tenacious. As a kid, he would push until he got his way just because John and Dean would tire of resisting him. As an adult, he wasn't much different.

"Dean," Sam's voice dropped an octave and Dean found himself squaring his shoulders as if expecting a blow. He knew that tone. "Let me do this."

"Huh?"

"Let me go find Declan, banish the wraith. Let me handle this one."

"No," Dean shook his head, taking a step back from the table. He cursed the weak spin of his vision that forced him to grab the back of the chair next to him for support. He glared at the victorious light in Sam's dark eyes.

"You aren't in any shape to—"

"No fucking way, Sam," Dean cut him off, his voice low and dangerous. "No way you're going against this thing alone."

"Dean," Sam pushed himself away from the table, standing slowly, his hands out as if calming a cornered animal. "I'll just find Declan, get the banishing spell, and end it. Easy as that."

"Not without me, you don't."

"You could get killed, Dean."

"What, and you can't? Last time I checked your visions didn't make you immortal."

"I don't have a concussion, Dean!" Sam took a step toward him, and it was literally all Dean could do to keep himself from taking a step back in reaction. "I'm not hanging on to a chair to keep myself from falling over."

Dean let go of the chair. "You're still my brother, Sam."

Sam's brows pulled together. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Dean shook his head once, ignoring the answering throb he got in reaction to that movement. "I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you is all."

Sam's shoulders seemed to sag, and he swallowed hard, "Dean—"

"Enough!"

The voice was harsh, loud, and final. Dean turned to look into the kitchen and saw Brenna standing in front of the sink, a wooden spoon brandished in her hand like a club. He felt Sam shift next to him. They both remained silent, staring at her.

"You two are the most…" she paused and shook her head, shifting her eyes to the floor. Reaching up with her free hand, she rubbed at the back of her short, wild red-gold hair. With a sigh, she looked up and her eyes met Sam's, not Dean's. "We're all going. All of us. And _that's_ the end of it."

Dean's heart jumped painfully at the thought of Brenna's life in his hands. He opened his mouth to counter her and she shifted hot eyes to meet his. They were her eyes – not the druid vision that he dreaded. They were hers and they were angry and they left no room for argument. He closed his mouth with an audible click.

Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam, watching his brother struggle with wanting to resist the idea of Brenna coming with them when he already had a hard enough time with Dean. Sam pressed his lips together and Dean saw a muscle in his jaw flex. He shook his head once and sat back down in front of the computer grumbling, "Fine, have it your way, but you're gonna go in there and get yourself hurt and I'm going to have to be the one to carry you out…"

"What was that, Sam?" Dean asked, a grin evident in his voice.

"Nothing," Sam pouted, tapping the keys of the laptop with renewed force.

Dean turned back to the duffel of weapons and reached in for his knife. The silver blade had saved them from more than one encounter with evil. He hefted the weight in his hand, balanced the knife at the hilt where the grip met the blade on the flat of his index finger, then flipped it around so that his fingers carefully held the flat of the blade.

He wasn't really thinking about what he was doing. His mind was on Sam. On Sam's sudden desire to protect him… on Sam's seemingly ardent fear of something bad happening to him. It was confusing… not too long ago, Sam was able to leave him behind, at night, while he was sleeping, while his guard was down. Left without a note, without word, without a way for Dean to protect him… a way for Dean to save him.

His hands trembled and the blade slipped slightly. Before he could adjust the balance, a slim hand snaked in and grasped the hilt, relieving him of the knife's weight. He blinked, tracing his eyes from the hand up the pale but shapely arm and met Brenna's eyes.

"Careful," she whispered. She rotated her wrist so that she could look at the knife in her hands. "Never did understand how you could sleep with this under your pillow without cutting your fingers off," she commented.

Dean saw Sam's head snap up. "How did you know that?"

Brenna flicked her eyes up to Sam's and her rosebud lips curved up in a hint of a smile.

"Never mind," Sam said, tapping the air with his fingers. "I don't want to know."

"I have food," Brenna said.

As if in automatic response to the idea, Dean's stomach grumbled. Brenna smiled at him, setting the knife down beside the guns, then turned from the table and walked back into the kitchen. Dean noticed that she again walked over the glass on the floor without a reaction to the sound of it crunching under her boots.

"It's not spectacular or anything," she said over her shoulder. "But you guys showed up at the bar at practically dawn. I doubt you've eaten."

"That's good thinking, Brenna," Sam said, sitting back in his chair, his hands resting on his thighs. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet," she said. "You haven't tried it."

"Brenna," Dean said, looking at the glass on the floor and all over the counter. "You, uh, want me to get something to clean that up?"

"No," she shook her head, not looking at him.

Dean glanced over at Sam and saw the same question in his eyes.

"Why not?"

"It stays," she said, her voice strangely dull, her shoulders curving in, away from them, protecting herself. "It stays until this is done."

Dean stared at her back, at the tense set of her shoulders, the slope of her neck, the tattoo that was there to remind her to believe in something. There was strength in her stance, but also an almost visible weakness that struck Dean's heart. He found himself wanting to cross the room and pull her into his arms, pull her against him, allow her to absorb his warmth and pull her pain from her. He forced himself to stand very still. He knew she wouldn't welcome his touch in this moment – and more than likely he would come away bloody from the attempt.

He slid his eyes sideways to Sam, who was also watching Brenna with a strange expression on his face. _Immigrant Song_ hummed softly over the silence.

"Find him, Sammy," he said softly. Sam looked at him, his eyes softening in response to Dean's tone.

"Yeah," he whispered.

Dean walked from the table to the stove toward Brenna, trying to ignore the glass that crunched under his boots. At his approach, Brenna straightened her shoulders, reaching above her head to pull down some plates. He saw that she had made several sandwiches and what looked like enough macaroni and cheese to feed a platoon. He stepped up behind her, close, and reached around her to take the plates from her hands. She looked up at him over her shoulder and gave him a shaky smile.

"Not exactly five star cuisine," she said.

"It's fine," he said, setting the plates on the counter, then putting his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. He expected to be slammed by their odd connection. He was slightly surprised when all he felt was the soft curve of her shoulders.

"You're shaking, Dean," she said.

Dean saw Sam's head snap up out of the corner of his eyes, but he ignored him.

"I'm okay," he said.

"Does it hurt?" her eyes shifted to the stitches running along his hairline.

He opened his mouth to offer the same reassurance that he frequently spoke to Sam, but suddenly remembered Declan's words. _Brenna can see people. You can't lie to her. She sees who you really are, not who you tell yourself you are…_ Aware of Sam's eyes, but not looking at his brother, he nodded in response to Brenna's question.

"You need something for it?"

Dean could see how badly she needed to be doing something. He recognized the same desire for constant movement in himself. Movement to him meant action. Action meant solution. And solution was the opposite of problem. So as long as he was doing something – even if it was simply tapping his finger in time to the music – he was one step closer to a solution.

"Yeah, I could use something," he said, releasing her shoulders.

She turned and crunched her way out of the kitchen to retrieve the aspirin from the bedroom. Dean filled two plates with macaroni and stacked several sandwiches on each. He carried them back to the table and set one next to Sam.

"Thanks," Sam said softly. Without looking at Dean, he started in on the meal.

"You find anything yet?"

"Getting close," Sam said around a mouthful of sandwich. "Trying to get the cell phone company to believe I'm Declan."

"Not a chance," Brenna said, returning to the room. Her voice held a forced lilt. She tapped three aspirin into Dean's outstretched hand. "You actually think about the people around you, Sam."

Sam lifted the corner of his mouth up in a smile of thanks. "Declan cares about you, Brenna," he offered.

Dean leaned forward on the table, resting his weight on his forearms. He hadn't touched his food yet, and was hoping Sam wouldn't notice. The idea of eating was at the moment tilting his world sideways.

"I suppose," Brenna sighed and walked to the stove, scooping out some macaroni for herself and returned to the table. Dean saw her look at him, his plate, and then frown. He braced himself, but she said nothing.

"When he called to me," she said, pushing the noodles around on her plate, staring at the piles of papers on the table, "he sounded so… so desperate. And incredibly sad. Like something was ending…"

"What did he say?" Dean asked, making an attempt to eat one of the sandwiches.

"Just my name," she said. "I just heard my name, but his voice was… full." She shook her head. "That doesn't make any sense, I know."

"Yeah, it does," Sam said softly.

Dean looked at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but Sam's eyes stayed fixed on the computer screen. Dean could see his jaw muscles working, and wondered what was going on in that head of his.

"He's had me since I was four," Brenna continued, distractedly sliding the tube-like noodles onto the individual prongs of her fork one at a time. "I don't really remember much of my life before him."

"What happened to them? Your parents, I mean," Sam asked, pausing in his search to look up at her.

Brenna lifted a shoulder and tilted her head, still not looking at either of them. Dean was grateful for the distraction of their conversation; he could allow the aspirin to again take effect, could not hold his body so still, could breathe for a moment. _Immigrant Song _was fading with the last lines. Dean rested his hand on his thigh, softly beating the time of the song as the words filled the quiet that awaited Brenna's answer.

"_So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins, for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing…"_

"My Dad was from Belfast, my Mom, Dublin. He met her in Dublin in school. I only really know this through Declan," she said, glancing briefly at Dean. He'd finished one sandwich, but he saw her eyes flicked across the rest of his meal in a non-verbal challenge. He picked up another sandwich, listening to her.

"They moved to the states before they married, bringing Declan with them. My Dad's family had supported the IRA for many years. So, when they moved here, I guess they hooked up with a group that supported the same."

"Jack Collins' group," Dean supplied. Brenna nodded.

"My Dad worked in a currency exchange office. My Mom was a teacher. Declan… he knew about their involvement with the IRA, but said he kept out of it."

"But something happened," Sam guessed.

Brenna nodded again. "In December of '83, a car bomb went off in front of Harrod's in London. It was the work of the Provisional IRA. Killed ninety people."

Dean winced, sitting back, his eyes leveled on Brenna, waiting.

"My parents decided they wanted out after that. Jack apparently decided there was no _out_." Brenna licked her lips, setting her fork down. "Declan said that Jack and a group of his men came to the house and killed my parents. One of them went after me. Jack stopped them. He was the one who took me to Declan."

"Brenna," Sam breathed. "I'm so sorry."

Dean heard the true sympathy in Sam's voice and relaxed in the knowledge that Sam could always be counted on for empathy. He had an uncanny ability to see a situation from another's eyes, and feel for them. Dean had watched his brother do this all of his life. He didn't understand how Sam did it – to Dean, the world was black and white. But Sam lived comfortably in the gray of the world.

She lifted a shoulder. "Why? You didn't do it."

"Yeah, but –"

Dean looked over at Sam when his brother stopped talking. Sam was looking at the computer.

"I found him," he said.

www

"What the hell is it with this town and abandoned stone buildings," Dean grumbled, resting his forehead on the cool glass of the passenger window.

He'd given in to Sam's stubborn insistence that he be the one to drive. Sam hadn't really had to put up much of a fight, and Dean could see that in and of itself worried his brother. But while Dean considered himself fit to banish a wraith and save Declan from his own stupidity, he did _not_ consider himself fit enough to drive his baby when he couldn't truly bring anything into focus. He wasn't about to put her in jeopardy for the sake of his pride.

Besides, it made Sam happy. And though he was a self-proclaimed ass sometimes, Dean's one concern in life was making Sam happy. Not that he'd ever tell Sam that.

"At least it's not a mill," Sam commented, turning down the overgrown gravel road toward the empty stone church.

"I can't believe I didn't know this was here," Brenna commented from the back seat. She was sitting forward, her arms across the back of the front seat, her chin on her folded hands, looking out of the window between the brothers.

Sam pulled up to a stop a few feet from the empty doorway of the church. Dean opened the door of the Impala, squinting as the mid-afternoon sun hit the green-tarnish of the bronze bell that hung silent and still in the belfry above them. To the left of the old church was a cemetery surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence. One side of the fence had toppled over slightly like an iron barricade barring the way of anyone's entrance.

Dean saw Brenna tilt her head as she got out of the car. She rubbed her upper arms as though to ward off a chill, even though Dean thought it was rather warm for this time of year. He watched her slowly approach the old gate of the wrought-iron fence. Just before opening it, she looked at them over her shoulder.

"You guys smell that?"

Dean started to answer when he saw Sam shake his head.

"No," Sam said. "I don't smell anything. Dean?" Sam turned to look at him over his shoulder, a clear message in his eyes. _Go with me on this_.

Dean shook his head and Brenna shrugged, shaking her head at her own craziness. She stepped into the small cemetery, looking down at the weather-worn headstones. Dean lifted his eyes to watch Sam walk around the Impala to the trunk. Sam opened the trunk, then looked over at Dean, lifting his chin in an indication for Dean to join him. Dean stepped up next to his brother, protected from Brenna's line of sight by the Impala's trunk.

"You know what that smell is," Sam whispered.

Dean nodded. "You think it's Declan?"

Sam grimaced. "Unless one of Eamon's men found this place…"

Dean reached for one of the shotguns, pressing his lips together. "It fits, though, doesn't it? He called Dad's phone _two days_ ago, Sam."

Sam nodded, a pained expression on his face as he reached for the other weapon that Dean had readied back at the house. "If it's not him… where has he been all this time?"

Dean closed his eyes briefly, then looked over at Sam, his jaw tight. "How are we going to tell her?"

"Tell me what?"

Dean jumped, he started to straighten and turn toward her and was prevented from hitting his already wounded head on the underside of the Impala's trunk by Sam's protective hand. He felt Sam's light touch guiding him out from underneath the trunk and then let go. He glanced a brief thanks at his brother before focusing on Brenna.

"That you're not going in there with us," he covered.

"The hell I'm not," she countered, her hands instantly going to her hips, her eyebrow raising in a challenge.

"Brenna," Sam started, his voice soft and patient, his eyes gentle. "It's better if we check this out by ourselves first. You can come in when we give the all clear."

"But –"

"No," Dean cut her off. "You heard him. It's a solid plan, and it keeps us as safe as it keeps you."

Brenna narrowed her eyes at Dean, pushing her lips out in thought. "Fine, but I want a gun."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I didn't bring one for you," he said.

"I did," Sam chimed in.

"What?!" Dean whipped his head over to his brother in surprise. "When did you have time to do that?"

"When you were loading the bag into the car," Sam said, pulling the Glock from his waistband and handing it to Brenna. "She did the same thing when we went to get you from the banshee," Sam shrugged. "Tiger doesn't change her stripes."

"Is that right?" Dean said, unable to contain his quick grin of admiration.

Sam leveled his eyes on Dean, a secret conversation held in their depths that only Dean would understand. "Yeah," he said, a dimple appearing in an answer to Dean's grin. "That's right."

Dean cocked the shotgun, then rested the barrel on his shoulder. "You ready?"

"If you are," Sam said, raising his eyebrow significantly.

Dean shook his head and started toward the church.

"Hey," Brenna called after them. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Guard the car," Sam called back, following Dean into the church.

Dean heard her grumble as she climbed onto the trunk to wait, "Guard the car… all they ever have me do is guard the friggin' car… like it's a member of the family or something…"

He paused just outside of the doorway, glancing back at her. "She is," he said, meeting her eyes and grinning as she rolled her eyes in response.

He stepped into the dimly lit abandoned church, letting his eyes adjust from the bright of the daylight outside. They'd walked into what once had been the sanctuary. Dean could see pews and an altar with a bent, tarnished cross lying on top. Paintings of saints were curled with age at the front of the room, and images depicting Jesus' benevolence were interrupted in the broken stained glass in the windows lining the length of the room.

Dean brought the shotgun down to rest in his two-handed grip. He felt rather than heard Sam walking directly behind him. He knew from experience that Sam was mirroring his stance. He made sure to watch Sam on every hunt when they were younger to ensure his brother did as John instructed. He needed to know for himself that Sam could survive without him if that ever became necessary.

"You think it's still here?" Sam asked, his voice hushed.

"Dunno," Dean said, his eyes scanning the dark corners of the sanctuary. "Spooks usually come out at night."

"Yeah, but wraiths are different," Sam said and Dean heard him rotate to check behind them quickly.

"Different how?"

"Dad's journal said that because they basically exist to protect…whatever they're supposed to protect, they can attack anytime."

"Well that's a cheery thought," Dean grumbled. "So if the… whatever Brenna called it…"

"Ardagh."

"Yeah, that," Dean nodded, moving to the doorway at the back of the sanctuary. "If it's still here, then the wraith's still here."

"Pretty much," Sam said. "Dean."

"What?"

"That smell…"

"Yeah, I know," Dean said. It was the smell of death. And it was getting stronger. "Stay sharp, Sam."

"I know," Sam snapped, an automatic response to being told what to do by his older brother.

They breached the doorway and found themselves in a small alcove that looked like a preparation room for the priest. On the other side of the room was a set of stairs leading down. Dean glanced back at Sam who nodded. Dean moved forward into the darkened stairway, the light that had seeped in from the broken windows receding as they moved into a lower room. At the base of the stairs was a long hallway flanked by several doors.

"Dean," Sam whispered.

"What?"

"You feel that?"

Dean furrowed his brows and looked over his shoulder at Sam. "Feel what?"

"That… I don't know… pull."

Dean clenched his jaw. "I don't feel anything, Sam."

"It's like… static electricity."

"Maybe you should get your Ouija board… see what the wraith wants," Dean tossed out without really thinking. He had his shotgun up and ready and was moving down the hall to the first door.

"You remember that?"

Something in Sam's voice made Dean pause and look at his brother over his shoulder. "Remember what?"

"The Ouija board."

Dean tossed him a look. "Whatever, Sam. We'd never use something like that," he started to move forward again.

"But we did," Sam protested. When Dean looked back at him he saw that Sam hadn't moved, his gun was down at his side, and his face was slightly pale. He was blinking owlishly at Dean.

"What do you mean, we did?"

"At the hospital," Sam said, as though forcing the words out with considerable effort.

Dean blinked, a sudden, unbidden image of his hands, of Sam's hands, knuckles cut and scraped, fingers resting on a triangular shape, guiding it to a letter… He shook his head, his vision blurring. _What the hell?_ His ears began to buzz and he shook his head again, trying to focus on Sam standing down the hall from him, but all he could see was Sam sitting, legs folded, face bruised and cut, eyes achingly young… _It hasn't been the same without you, Dean…_

He tried to draw in a breath, but it was as if someone had suddenly flattened his lungs, cut off his air supply, denied him that one relief. He took a step forward and felt himself go down to one knee, the shotgun still gripped in his hands. He closed his eyes tight, forcing himself to concentrate, forcing himself to open his mouth, to pull in air…

"…there you go, it's okay, jeeze, man, don't scare me like that…"

Sam. Sam was next to him. Sam was talking to him. Sam's hand was on his back, just between his shoulder blades. Was that a memory? And if so, where were all these random memories coming from?

"Maybe it's from the concussion," Sam was saying.

Dean blinked up at him. He hadn't realized he'd asked it out loud. He swallowed, keeping his eyes on Sam until he could remember the normal pattern of his breathing.

"Weird," he wheezed.

Sam braced him under the arm and helped him to his feet. "Well, it is your head we're talking about," Sam joked.

"What are you guys doing?"

They both lifted their heads to the base of the stairs. Brenna stood there, Glock gripped in her right hand, left hand braced on the stone wall. Here eyes were wide, her lips pressed into a thin line. Dean suddenly wanted to protect her from finding what he was sure they were going to find. But he knew that to do so, he'd have to physically force her out of there. And he suspected he wouldn't come away from the encounter unscathed.

"Just dealing with some old ghosts," Sam said. "Why aren't you by the car?"

"She can take care of herself," Brenna retorted, shifting her eyes to Dean. "You lied to me."

Dean knew she could see it now. He was actually surprised she hadn't seen through them before.

"We don't know it's him, Brenna," Dean whispered.

"Where?" There was a bite in her voice, a hard edge that hit Dean like a physical blow.

Sam kept his hand on Dean's arm and stepped forward, almost as though he were putting himself between Dean and Brenna. "We don't know yet," he said.

She approached them, here eyes hard. "What the hell are we waiting for?"

Dean shrugged off Sam's hand, irritated by his weakness, by the betrayal of his own mind. He hefted the shotgun and turned to move further down the hall. He heard Sam and Brenna fall into step behind him. The first two rooms were empty of everything. The third was filled with empty chairs set up at empty tables.

As they approached the fourth, Dean felt Sam slow behind him. He reached for the door, and looked at his brother over his shoulder as he did so. Sam lips twitched and he narrowed his eyes. He didn't say a word, but Dean had spent his life watching out for his brother. He knew when Sam's Spidey sense was tingling.

"Brenna, get behind Sam," he ordered.

"But—"

"_Now_," he snapped, watching as Sam grabbed her arm and pulled her back, forcibly shoving her behind him.

She was completely hidden by his 6'4" frame. Dean pushed the door open. The room that he stepped into was an entry way into a lower, larger room, accessed by a series of stairs. Shotgun at the ready, he moved through the entry room, and began to make his way down the stairs. At the base of the stairs, he realized he could actually see better in this room. He glanced up to see that while the room may be below ground, there were slim windows near the ceiling that would be at ground level outside. Like all the other windows in the church, these too were broken. Birds flitted in and out of the openings, screeching and calling to each other.

The pale light that illuminated the large chamber exposed what appeared to be a cement crypt and several gold urns recessed along the back wall. He moved on silent feet toward the crypt, breathing shallowly. As he approached, he scanned the darkened corners. The problem with the dark is that the longer he stared, the darker it became. He couldn't penetrate the shadows with his gaze and trying to do so was beginning to make his head spin.

He dropped his eyes and they rested on a boot sticking out from the opposite side of the crypt. He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Even before he approached the boot, he knew. He'd found Declan. And he hadn't prevented a damn thing. She was going to feel this…

"What is it?" Brenna's voice trembled, and he realized she knew the answer to her own question.

"Brenna stay back there with Sam."

"_Go hIfreann leat!"_

He didn't have to understand Gaelic to know she was telling him to go to hell. Her tone said it. And it's what he would have said in the same situation. She managed to push past Sam and approach the crypt. She stopped next to Dean, seeing only the boot. He felt her arm against his arm, and with that contact her pain and fear stabbed into him. He caught his breath and stepped away from her, closer to the boot.

He moved cautiously around the crypt. Declan was on his back, his arms up, limp across his chest as though they had been raised in defense and dropped there in defeat. His face had started to swell, but the expression of abject fear was still visible. His eyes were open, but the color had been leeched by death. Next to him lay his cell phone. He was propped slightly on his side against the crypt.

"Oh, Da," Brenna breathed. Before Dean could catch her, she moved past him and up to Declan. She stopped suddenly at his side as if she ran into an invisible wall, then she fell to her knees. "What have you done?" she whispered.

Dean tried to swallow, but found that his throat had closed up. As he watched her reach a trembling hand to touch the impossibly pale, slightly bloated skin of her grandfather's hand, he felt his breath catch. He saw Sam's eyes as they stared at John's body in the morgue. He saw Sam reach out to touch John's face – a gesture Sam hadn't attempted with their father since he was three. He saw Sam's devestation as they wrapped John in the sheet and smuggled him out of the hospital. He heard Sam's heartbroken tears when he asked _Did he say anything to you _as their father burned. And he heard himself lie because the truth would have destroyed Sam in that moment.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was at his shoulder.

"We were too late, Sam," he whispered.

Brenna was whispering words that Dean couldn't understand and didn't want to follow. He didn't hear anger or resentment in her voice. He didn't hear accusation. He heard only loss.

"_Tá grá agam duit…"_

"Dean…" Sam tried again. "We got here as fast as we could."

"I didn't stop it, Sam," he said, shaking his head. "He used the spell, called it, and it took him. It took him and I didn't do a damn thing."

He felt Sam's hand on his shoulder. "Hey," Sam's voice was still soft, but this time there was a note of insistence in it that Dean couldn't ignore. He looked over at his brother. 'Who are you seeing there, Dean?"

Dean blinked at him. "What?"

"Declan died before we even knew he was in trouble," Sam said, his fingers beginning to dig into his shoulder.

_Declan…_ Dean blinked. "Yeah," he said. He looked back at Brenna. "We have to get them out of here."

His only warning that evil had arrived was a brief tightening of Sam's hand before his brother was literally ripped from him and tossed into the wall across the way. Sam slid to the floor and lay there blinking.

"Sam!"

The wraith stood on the top of the crypt. Dean whirled away from the direction Sam had been thrown to face the wavering ghost-like image in front of him. It was transparent, yet seemed solid. It looked like a breath, like a thought, like every scary image of the evil lurking in a childhood closet. It's face was featureless with the exception of a large maw of a mouth, black and oily as it opened and closed silently. It moved toward him on and he raised his shotgun.

He fired a round of rock salt into the wraith at close range. He registered Brenna flinching and clapping her hands over her ears. The wraith vanished without a sound. Dean looked wildly around the room with wide eyes. He grabbed Brenna's arm and hauled her to her feet, ignoring her protests, and pulled her toward Sam, who was, thankfully, pushing himself to his feet.

"Sam, get her out of here," Dean bellowed.

"I'm not leaving him here," Brenna shouted.

"I'll get him, you just get the hell out!"

He literally tossed Brenna into Sam and turned back to face the crypt with the shotgun.

"Dean—" Sam tried.

"Go, Sam! Get out of here!"

He heard Sam move up the series of stairs, Brenna protesting the whole way. He hurried back across the room to Declan's body. He started to pat down Declan's pockets, keeping his eyes up, watching for the wraith.

"C'mon c'mon c'mon…" he grimaced as he pulled at Declan, turning him over to check his back pockets. "Where is it old man, I know you had to have it—"

"DEAN!"

The panic and pain in Sam's voice literally stopped his heart. Forgetting about Declan, about the banishing spell, about the Ardagh, about anything other than getting to Sam, he broke into a run up the stairs and through the door. He ran down the hall, shotgun held ready, and when he reached the stairs he heard Brenna scream something in Gaelic, her voice viscious. It almost sounded like she was chanting.

The wraith was descending on her, backing her up against a wall of the sanctuary adorned by broken stained glass windows. Her eyes, large and predatory, were pinned to the ghostly form. As the wraith came closer, the remaining glass in the windows behind Brenna shattered in colored confetti of shards.

"Brenna, get down!" Dean bellowed. She complied instantly, dropping to the ground and covering her head.

Dean blasted his second round into the wraith, causing the spirit to once again disappear in an eerie silence.

"Where's Sam?" Dean stalked over to Brenna, grabbing her arm a bit more roughly than he'd intended in his fear for his brother. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and he pushed her away from him a bit so that he wasn't caught by her gaze. "Where is he?!"

"I-it tossed him," Brenna's voice shook. "He tried to push me out of the way, but it tossed him."

"WHERE?!"

Brenna pointed toward an open doorway just a bit down from her leading to the side yard. Dean let go of her arm.

"Get to the Impala," he said, moving toward the doorway at a run. He didn't bother to see if she listened to him this time. Fear fueled his motion. He felt no pain, heard no sound, saw nothing but that doorway.

As he crossed the threshold, he saw Sam. "Sammy…" he breathed.

He was slumped against the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the small cemetery. His head was low, his chin touching his chest. And he was so still. Dean stopped breathing as he approached. He realized that the sun was beginning its decent into the west. Long shadows were tossed across the small piece of grass between them. He didn't stop until he was next to his brother, shotgun dropping into the grass. He crouched next to Sam, reaching out cautiously to touch his brother's neck.

"Sammy?" he whispered.

Just before his fingers pressed against Sam's neck, his brother's head jerked up with a pain-filled gasp.

"Dean!"

"Hey, hey," Dean said, reaching out to grasp Sam's left shoulder. "I'm here, it's okay."

"It didn't get you…"

"No, Sam, I'm okay," Dean looked anxiously at Sam's pale face. "We need to get out of here, though."

"Gonna need some help," Sam said, his voice slurring. Dean narrowed his eyes, working to see where Sam was hurt. He attempted to pull Sam toward him and was stopped cold when Sam cried out.

"God! No, no, Dean… stop… stop."

"What! What is it?"

"M-my shoulder," Sam panted, eyes pressed closed.

Dean adjusted his stance and looked at Sam's right shoulder. He'd missed it by the angle Sam was sitting.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

One of the wrought-iron spokes from the fence had stabbed through the top of Sam's shoulder, above his collar bone. The tip of the spoke barely poked out from the other side of Sam's shoulder. Blood colored only a small patch of his shoulder in the front, but as he carefully examined the wounded area, he felt blood soaking the back of Sam's shirt. Dean's stomach turned to ice at the thought of the pain it was causing his brother.

"Okay, man, I see it, I see it," he muttered. He looked anxiously over his shoulder. The abandoned stone church was silent and dark. He was fairly certain the wraith was bound to the church as long as the Ardagh was still inside. But he had no guarantees of that and the last thing he needed was to fight off a soul-stealer with Sam pinned to a cemetery fence.

"Sammy, listen," he said, grasping Sam's chin and lifting his brother's face to his. "This is going to hurt like a bitch, but I gotta pull you off of here, okay?"

"I know," Sam's voice was faint. "Do it quick, okay?"

"You got it," Dean promised. He straddled Sam, balancing himself as best he could. He tucked his arms under Sam's and leaned forward so that his cheek was close to Sam's ear. It was as close as he'd come to hugging his brother since… well, in a long time. "You ready?"

"Do it," Sam whispered, reaching up to grip the back of Dean's jacket in his left hand.

"On three, okay? One, two…" he pulled Sam up and toward him, sliding him off of the spike as carefully as he could. Sam screamed, his left hand fisting in Dean's jacket, his entire body tensing.

Dean staggered with Sam's weight and fell a bit to his side, Sam still in his arms. He felt Sam go limp, his head resting on Dean's shoulder, his arms around Dean as if he was afraid to let go, even unconscious.

"Shit," Dean panted. His head was spinning and he could feel his heartbeat in the cut on the side of his head. He tried to pull himself out from under Sam to get him in a better position but his brother was at an odd angle. He couldn't seem to roll Sam off of him or get out from underneath him without causing Sam more pain. "Shit shit shit…"

"I got him," Brenna's voice came out of nowhere and Dean thought it was the sweetest sound he ever heard. "I got him, Dean, get out of there."

Dean let Brenna hold Sam a moment and scrambled out from underneath him to get a better balance. He took Sam from Brenna's arms, rolling him to his side to look at his shoulder.

"It's bad, but it could be worse," Brenna said, probing the wound with gentle hands. "Went through the top, missed his bone it looks like."

"Can you help him?" Dean asked, surprised to hear the tremor in his voice.

"Yes," Brenna said with conviction. "Get him up."

Dean crouched low and moved behind Sam to get his arms under Sam's shoulders. Sam's chin dropped down onto his chest. Dean knew that on his best day he couldn't carry Sam, and today was decidedly _not_ his best day. He ended up dragging Sam backwards to the Impala, his brother's shoes skidding and tripping over the grassy earth beneath them.

Once at the Impala, Brenna scrambled into the back seat and helped Dean lift Sam in, pulling him across the seat. Dean had to turn him so that his long legs would fit into the car. Brenna held his head in her lap, pressing a spare T-shirt she'd picked up on the floor of the car into both sides of Sam's wound. Sam groaned and turned his head as she pressed down.

Dean grasped his brother's leg, "Hey man, it's okay," he said.

"Dean?" Sam called weakly, his eyes blinking slowly, not truly conscious.

"I'm here, Sammy," Dean said. "I'm gonna get you out of here. You hang in there, you hear me?"

"Yeah…" Sam whispered, grimacing and trying to pull away from the pressure Brenna was putting on his shoulder. "Dean." This time when Sam said his name, Dean heard _I trust you I need you I hurt._ He suddenly understood what Brenna meant by her name sounding full in Declan's voice.

"We're going, Sammy," he said, squeezing his brother's leg in reassurance.

"'Kay," Sam whispered, then his eyes closed and he seemed to sink into Brenna's arms. She lifted her eyes and nodded to Dean.

Dean hurried around to the driver's side of the car, sliding behind the wheel and turned the keys in the ignition. As the Impala roared to life, the adrenaline rush that had pushed Dean through the last several moments suddenly began to ebb. He saw black spots in front of his eyes and rested his forehead on the steering wheel, closing his eyes and willing the darkness away.

"You can do this, Dean," Brenna said from the back. "Just ignore it. It doesn't exist. There is no pain."

_There is no pain…_ Dean swallowed and lifted his head. He met her eyes in the rearview mirror. The focus of her druid sight hit him and he gasped. _There is no pain…_ He blinked, looked away from her, shifted into Drive and pulled away from the church.

www

"At least this time it isn't you," Brenna said as she cleaned Sam's shoulder.

They'd managed to get Sam inside together and Dean laid him on the bed that he'd been resting on that morning. Sam had blinked awake again as they'd laid him on the bed. He'd called for Dean, then, reassured that his brother was close, had closed his eyes again. Brenna removed his shirt with a practiced ease that Dean remembered from New Orleans. Her small hands were strong, sure, and gentle. She had instructed Dean to gather supplies and was now cleaning the puncture wound with the same cloudy liquid she'd prepared for him that morning.

"I wish it was me," Dean whispered, watching Sam's face.

Sam pulled his brows together as Brenna worked, his cheek muscle twitching. Dean reached down to wrap his hand around Sam's forearm, trying to reassure his brother with his touch. Dean had stitched Sam up before, both when he was awake and when he was unconscious. Every time he'd done so, however, when he was finished, he'd hurried to the bathroom and emptied his stomach of whatever food he'd consumed that day.

"I know you do," Brenna said. "But you can't jump in front of every bullet, Dean." Her voice was almost too calm, he thought. Too… controlled.

"It's my job to protect him," Dean said, his eyes never leaving Sam's face as Brenna began to stitch up the wound on the front. "I have to save him…"

"Don't you think he feels the same way about you?"

"You don't understand…"

"Yeah, Dean, I do," she said, carefully easing Sam to his side so that she could get to his back. "Here, hold him."

Dean crouched down to gather Sam up, holding his brother against him as she worked on his back. Sam groaned as she probed he wound on his back, but he didn't wake. His forehead rested on Dean's arm. Dean lowered his forehead to rest on the top of Sam's head.

"I know what your father told you," Brenna said softly.

Dean didn't even flinch. Somehow he wasn't surprised. She got in, got under his wall, saw what he didn't want anyone to see… what he couldn't allow himself to see. He continued to hold Sam as she wrapped his shoulder. When she was finished, he eased Sam back onto the bed and slid his arms out from behind his neck. Sam's head rolled on the pillow toward Dean. Brenna turned away, mixing something in a coffee mug, and handed it to Dean.

"Help him drink this," she said.

"But he's out," Dean protested.

"Well," Brenna crossed her arms over her chest. "That's why you need to help him." She turned away from him and headed to the doorway.

"Where are you going?"

"To the bar," she said without looking back. "I need a drink."

When she'd left the room, Dean looked down at Sam. He looked so young in his sleep. He looked like he did before he'd left for Stanford, before Dean had been forced to figure out a way to survive two years without his only friend, before Jessica died, before they found Dad, before the cabin, before the demon, before the accident, before Dad…

"Dammit, Sammy," Dean whispered, pushing a chunk of dark brown hair away from Sam's eyes. "I promised to watch out for you…"

"Dean?" This time, Sam's voice was groggy, not pain-filled.

"Hey, man," Dean said, the smile on his face an automatic reaction to the sound of his brother's voice. "How are you feeling?"

"Fantastic," Sam blinked his eyes open, attempting to focus on Dean's face. "Didn't get it, did we?"

"We'll get another shot," Dean assured him.

"It tried to go after Brenna," Sam said, licking his lips, his face pulling together in a wince. "Like it knew her or something."

"Don't worry about that now," Dean said. "I got something for you."

"Morphine?"

Dean grinned. "Not exactly," he cupped the back of Sam's head and lifted it slightly, setting the mug against his brother's lips. "Down the hatch, brother."

Sam took a tiny sip and tried to pull away. "What the hell _is_ this?"

"It supposed to help you," Dean said, holding the cup steady. "Brenna made it."

Sam shifted his eyes up to Dean's and he saw something reflect there that he couldn't identify. Whatever it was, though, Sam allowed Dean to help him drink the whole thing, grimacing as he swallowed the last amount. Dean eased him back down.

"Go find her, Dean," Sam said, blinking slowly.

"What are you talking about? I'm not leaving you," Dean protested.

"She needs you," Sam said. "She just won't admit it."

"Sam—"

"I'm not goin' anywhere, man," Sam said, his eyes closed. "I know you'll come back to check on me… just… go find her…"

Within seconds Sam was asleep. Dean pulled the blanket up to his shoulders and brushed his long hair out of his eyes.

"Never could keep that hair a normal length," he said softly.

Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet. He rubbed a hand over his face, looked down at Sam again, then turned to leave the room. At the doorway he looked back over his shoulder at his sleeping brother. He wanted to stay, but Sam was right -- he needed to check on Brenna. Since finding Sam pinned to the fence, she hadn't mentioned Declan once. He wouldn't put it past her to go after her grandfather's body by herself, wraith or no wraith.

He walked the short distance from the house to the bar. He wanted to get back to Sam as quickly as possible. When he saw Brenna, he stopped. She was standing behind the bar, staring at her own reflection in the large mirror. Her shoulders were tight, and her eyes hot. He stepped from the shadows so that she could see him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Making sure you're okay," he replied. "And that you aren't going to do anything stupid."

"I'm planning on getting drunk, so if that's stupid, then the answer is yes. And I'm fine."

"Yeah, you look it."

"Just go, Dean," she growled, whirling on him, her short hair like angry wings on either side of her petite face. Her eyes were large, pain-filled, and dangerous. "Go stay with your brother. I don't want you here. Just go!"

"I can't." He suddenly knew he couldn't leave her, not now, not like this. Not when she'd saved him – twice -- not when she'd just fixed Sam, not when he'd let her down so completely…

"Go!"

"I _can't_."

"Get out of here, Dean!" She could have screamed it, but it was a low growl. The pain in her wide eyes simmered into anger.

"Brenna, I can't leave you like—"

Moving quickly, she stepped out from behind the bar and stood in front of him. He held himself very still, unsure how to deal with her in this situation. His head gave a sharp throb and he clenched his jaw.

"Sure you can. Declan's dead. You came to help him, but he doesn't need your help anymore. Just go. Just walk away."

"I _can't,_" he repeated. It was built into him; he had to take care of it – whatever it was. He had to put it right. She was broken because they hadn't gotten there in time… because _he_ hadn't gotten there in time.

"I want you to, Dean," she said, stepping forward, her eyes widening further, purposefully drawing him in. "I want you to leave," she stepped closer, and he stepped back. "I want you out," closer still, back another step. "Do you hear me?" He stepped back again, at last feeling the wall across from the bar behind him. "GET OUT!" The back of his head touched the wall and he looked down at her, her eyes, her mouth.

"Brenna—"

And then he was falling. Her anger amplified the pull of her power and he fell. His walls crumbled. He felt her expose him, felt her see him – see his pain, see the fear, the doubt, see him unable to save Sam, see Sam with opaque eyes and a devil's smile, see Dean having to kill Sam because he'd failed to save him… He tried to pull back, tried to hide, tried to keep the darkness inside, but Sam's eyes, Sam's pain, Sam's loss flooded over him and he was suddenly drowning. He had to stop her… stop her before she saw it all, before she saw the rest…

He felt her reach her hands up to his face, reaching instinctively to comfort in a reaction to what she was seeing, and he forced his hands up, grabbing her wrists. He wrapped his fingers around the slim bones and with a strong heave pushed her away from him. Her gaze dropped and he found himself leaning against the wall for support, trembling and panting.

"No," he whispered.

"No what," she panted.

"No. You can't see any more… I won't let you," he growled.

He suddenly didn't care that she, too, had lost. Declan may have wanted to protect her, may have only called to her in his last moments out of longing or desperation, but he'd never been the protector he should have been. He hadn't sacrificed himself for her. He hadn't made a deal to save her life. He hadn't died to save her. He'd just died. He'd just _left_ her.

"You won't _let_ me?" she asked, venom in her voice. She was standing against the bar, leaning against it for support in a mirror of his position against the wall. Her chin was down, her eyes pinned to his.

"No," he growled.

"John left you, Dean. I saw it. He told you that if you couldn't save Sam, you'd have to kill him and then he _left_ you."

"It's not the same!"

She tossed her chin up, flicking damp bangs out of her large eyes. "Sure it is."

"Shut the hell up."

"Why? He tells you – for the first time in your entire life – he tells you he's proud of you, dumps _that_ on you, then dies?!"

"Shut up, Brenna," Dean was trembling. If it were anyone else slamming these words into him he would have started swinging long ago. John did what he _had _to do. The only thing he could do. It was the only way to protect Sam. The _only_ way.

"It's the same. He left you. Declan left me. They betrayed us."

"You're wrong."

"You only want me to be!" she straightened, pushing away from the bar, standing with her feet braced apart, her hands spread, inviting him in and closing him off at the same time.

"You're _wrong_."

"Dean, he killed you with those words," she said softly.

"Stop it," Dean panted, still leaning against the wall, his head low, his eyes up. The pain in his head, in his back, had taken a back seat to this strange mixture of anger and desire she was feeding in him. He watched her step closer to him. Watched her mouth. Watched her lips.

"Why? Because you don't want to hear it? Because you're tired of the truth?"

"Because I fucking _can't_, okay?"

"Can't what?" she yelled at him, stepping closer, and he watched her eyes flick from his eyes to his mouth to his hands to his shoulders and back to his eyes.

"I can't _not_ do my job," Dean breathed, watching her step even closer to him. He felt gutted and on fire at the same time. He felt as though her words were hollowing out his soul and her eyes were filling the empty space with hot coals of pain and anger – _her_ pain. _Her _anger. "I have to protect him."

"Who, Sam?"

Dean just blinked at her, surprised to feel his lashes flick sweat from his cheeks into the air to land in the void between them. He was pressed against the wall from shoulder to ankle, his arms splayed against the wall, his fingertips digging in.

"You can't save him from everything, Dean," she said, her eyes searing his.

"I can try," he whispered.

"You'll lose yourself," she whispered back, and pulled the anger from the air to punctuate her sentence.

"Maybe," he said, blinking sweat away again. "But he's my brother."

"You'll die for him," she said, and he couldn't tell if it was a question or a prediction.

"If it comes to that," he said, looking down at her as she stepped close enough that her breasts pressed against his black T-shirt-clad chest, her hips melded into his, her hands pressed against the wall near his elbows. He looked down at the tip of her nose as she directed her gaze at his throat. She lifted her wide, predatory eyes and he sucked in his breath.

"Would he do the same?" she asked, her voice barely above a breath of sound.

"Stop it," he ground out, feeling himself react to her closeness.

"No," she said, canting her head to the side, and pressed her body harder against his. He knew she knew him, knew his body, knew how to get him to respond, knew how to weaken him, how to harden him, how to make him sigh, how to make him moan. But he also knew hers, and he knew how to make this stop, how to make her stop…

"Yes," he growled, pushing away from the wall suddenly, making her stumble backwards. He caught her elbows before she tangled her feet and fell, held her up, held her against him. He stepped forward forcefully until her waist was pressed against the bar.

Then before she could say anything else, he descended. He pressed his mouth to hers, hard, forceful, unrelenting. She pressed back against him, lifting her hands and digging her nails into his forearms hard enough to draw small crescents of blood. She bit his lip, hard, and he pressed his mouth harder on hers so that she couldn't get a breath. He moved his hands to her waist, lifting her up on the bar.

She allowed that, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him to her. His stomach slammed against the bar with the force of her strong legs. Her head was higher than his now, and to maintain control, he reached up and fisted his fingers into her short hair, pressing her face close to his, pulling her lips to his, and bruising them, crushing them against his. She pushed against him, resisting and his instinct was to release her, allow her space, allow her to recover. Instead he lifted her, turned her – not letting her get her feet to the ground – and in three strides had pressed her against the wall with just shy of a bone-jarring slam.

She reached up to his shoulders and dug in, wrapping her legs around him, pulling him close. They were panting, desperate for air. But he couldn't stop. He couldn't release her, couldn't give her quarter. He reached for her shirt and she moved his hands away, tearing away her own buttons as she pulled open her blouse. He held her against the wall with his hips, pulling his shirt over his head. She stared at him, her lips red and swollen, her eyes wide.

He held her eyes for a moment and knew. After this moment, the future was tainted, the past shadowed. There was only this present, this moment, this feeling, this release, this redemption. They could pour their anger and pain into each other now, stopping it from consuming them, or they could walk away and forget this ever happened. Dean pulled back, breathing hard, watching her eyes, asking her...

"I've never hurt like this, Dean. Never. And I never want to again. I want you to take it away."

"It won't go away," he whispered.

"But you can change it," she argued, her voice cracking, her swollen lips hovering near his, her legs tightening around his waist pulling him closer to her, her back pressing against the wall. "You can make me remember you… remember this instead."

"It won't go away," he repeated. "It never goes away. It sneaks up on you, Brenna. It takes you when you least expect it."

"Please," she whispered.

His eyes were hot on hers. "We do this, there's no going back," he said. He wasn't talking about sex – and he knew she knew it. They'd already tasted each other in that way. He was talking about replacing the hurt with something physical. He was talking about using each other.

"I don't want to go back," she said, gripping the back of his neck and capturing his mouth with hers in a kiss of anger, power, and fear.

He held her against the wall, quickly rid them of their clothing. He felt her heat, felt her strength… he let her feel his pain, his desperation. He heard her gasp as his honesty poured from him in wordless motion. He pressed her back repeatedly against the wall, pressed his face to her chest, his breath hot across her smooth skin. He heard her sob once, felt her shudder, and then felt himself tip, spinning, falling over the edge.

He was spent, empty, trembling. He could barely hold her up. He eased her off of him and helped her find her footing, stepping back. They pulled their clothes on in silence. His head swam. He'd let it happen, allowed her desperation to sway his judgment. And he wasn't sure that he was all that sorry.

He saw her swollen lips, the slight bruising there, and without thinking he reached out to press a gentle hand against them. Her lips had been one of the first things he noticed about her. Until her eyes had virtually sucked his soul from him. She reached up to his hand, closing her fingers around his and pressed her lips against her fingertips before letting him drop his hand.

"We make our own future, Dean," she whispered, holding her torn blouse together with a trembling hand as she turned away from him.

Dean licked his lips, looking at her profile, curling his fingers up against the palms of his hands. "Brenna… this… we…" he could only shake his head.

She stopped and turned to face him. "Even if I wanted that… which I don't… I know it's not possible, Dean. You can never belong to me – you already belong to someone else."

Dean pulled his head back at her choice of words. "What?"

She continued as if he'd not said anything. "The thing is, you give yourself willingly… you are so far down inside of yourself you don't really even know if you truly exist anymore… without Sam… I can't see you."

He trembled a bit at how closely that hit to the truth. "I'll do what it takes to save him, Brenna," he whispered. "I have to."

She lifted her eyes and met his – this time they were _her_ eyes. Her eyes seeing only him and not too deep, not too far, not to where he couldn't protect himself. "I know."

She walked away from him and through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, pausing only to grab a bottle of tequila by the neck from the shelf behind the bar. His eyes followed her as his body trembled. For the moment he was touching her, holding her, the pain in his head had been a distant memory and his strength had been fueled by anger and desire. Now that she was gone, he felt weak and the ache in his head spread down his neck to the bruise on his lower back. He wanted nothing more than to curl up on the floor where he stood and sleep for a week.

Instead he walked back to the house to check on Sam. He made his way across the empty dirt lot, the night wind drying the sweat on his skin, cooling the pain in his head, alerting his senses. He saw a light turn on in the garage and heard banging. He knew Brenna was working off more of her anger, and he didn't blame her. He just hoped she didn't go back after Declan's body without help.

He walked into the house and to the bedroom, pausing in the doorway to look down at Sam. He was sprawled in his normal complete-bed-take-over sleep position, his face peaceful, devoid of lines of pain or haunts of memories. Brenna's remedy had done the trick in allowing Sam apparently dreamless sleep, allowing him to heal. Dean rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes. _You belong to someone else… without Sam, I can't see you…_

He looked back up at his brother, approaching the bed carefully. "She's right, Sammy," he whispered. "I _will_ keep you safe. I promise you that."

He rubbed the back of his neck, the bruises on his back and side making themselves known from his activities moments ago. How had he let it go that far that fast? He'd lost complete control of this situation. He was remembering things he shouldn't be able to remember, Sam had gotten hurt, and now Brenna… With a low growl, he clenched his hands into fists, looking at Sam's face once more.

"This ends now, Sammy," he whispered. "I'm ending it."

Sam stirred softly on the bed, muttering something unintelligible in his sleep. Dean knew he couldn't let Sam wake and not know where he was. He knew the horror that would seep through him upon waking up alone. He'd felt it two weeks ago. He had to let Sam know he'd be back. That he wouldn't have left him if there had been any other choice.

He went to the kitchen, glass crunching under his boots, and opened a few drawers until he found what he was looking for. He scrawled a note, signed his name, then turned back to the bedroom. Picking up Sam's left hand, he stuffed the note into Sam's palm and folded his fingers over it in a tight grip. Sighing, he grabbed his leather jacket from the foot of the bed, straightened and went into the kitchen, retrieving several rounds of rock salt from the duffel and stuffing them into his pockets. He flipped through his father's journal, checking one last time to see if there was a banishing spell.

Not finding one, he closed the book, allowing his fingers to trail over the soft leather of the book. _I want you to…watch out for Sammy…_

"Yeah, Dad," he whispered. "You know I will."

With one last glance at Sam, he left the house and climbed behind the wheel of the Impala, heading back to the church to bring Declan home to his granddaughter and finish off the wraith before it had the chance to hurt anyone else Dean loved.

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a/n: The events in London in 1983 precipitated by the Provisional IRA are true.

Translations:

_Go hIfreann leat!_ To hell with you!

_Tá grá agam duit._ I love you.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1 _

_a/n: To everyone who has been reading, thank you. You never know how long you'll get to do what it is you love to do, and I thank you sincerely for making this time so incredibly worthwhile. I anxiously look forward to your reviews – you have the power to make or break my day. _

_I've been working to stretch my storytelling muscles and practice on POVs. This chapter alternates between both boys' POVs where the previous chapters and the chapters still to come will be told specifically from either Sam or Dean eyes. I hope it flows for you._

_E_ –_ A friend can tell you things you don't want to tell yourself. (Frances Ward Weller) Thanks for that._

_Kelly - Thank God you enjoy the crazy rambles that you wade through…_

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_Ruin and recovery are both from within. - Epictetus_

Into the Fire – Chapter 4

The first thing Sam noticed was the darkness. It took a moment for him to realize that his eyes were open. The next thing he noticed was the dull ache in his shoulder. Grimacing, he slowly rolled to his left side. God, he was sore.

"Dean?"

Silence was his only answer. He was strangely surprised. Every time in the past when he'd been sick or injured, it was all he could do to keep Dean away. Dean would always be closer than his shadow until he was convinced that Sam wasn't going to collapse or disappear. Shifting, he winced against the pull at his shoulder.

"Dean?" he called again, wanting to make sure… wanting Dean there… confused why he wasn't…

He pulled his eyebrows together, trying to focus on the bed across the way, thinking maybe Dean had finally given in to exhaustion, had finally allowed his body to rest. He saw the dim outline of the pile of shop towels and engine parts. No Dean.

Groaning, he started to push himself into a sitting position. His shoulder burned with an oddly familiar pain. Stitches had always bothered Sam more than the actual wound, it seemed. As he slowly leveraged his body upright, he noticed the paper crumpled in his left hand. He cradled his right arm in his lap and worked to open the paper with one hand. He could see something was written on it, but it was too dark to make out the words. He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, gathering his balance.

He realized quickly that he was shirtless – surmising that either Brenna or Dean had removed it to get to his wound. His stomach rolled sickening as he remembered the thrust of power from the wraith, the strange, weightless sensation of flying through the open doorway, and the blinding, teeth-numbing pain of the fence stabbing through the top part of his shoulder and halting his motion. He shivered slightly from the memory and the pain it renewed in his arm.

He craned his neck to look at the bandage that had been wrapped around the top of his shoulder. It was still clean and white – if his wound was bleeding, it hadn't yet seeped through to the surface. He felt slightly weak, definitely sore, but somehow also rested. He knew that it was thanks to Brenna's bitter-tasting beverage. The same one, he suspected, that she had administered to Dean when he was recovering from the banshee's attack.

Easing himself carefully to his feet, he fumbled a bit in the dark until he found a light switch on the wall. Turning it on, his eyes sought out his duffel of clothes. Being careful not to move his shoulder too much, he set the note on the bed and reached into the duffel with his left hand to retrieve a shirt. He was tempted to wait until Dean came back to get help putting it on.

His memory flashed to the almost angry look in Dean's eyes when his brother had found him. He knew that anger was at the situation, at not having prevented Sam from getting hurt. An almost childlike need for his brother's presence hit him like a punch to the gut. Just knowing Dean was around steadied Sam. He vividly recalled his complete relief when he'd asked in the quiet of the hospital room if Dean were there and the Ouija board planchette pointed to _yes_.

Suddenly he remembered telling Dean to go after Brenna. Insisting that he go find her. She'd been so…vacant before they'd been attacked by the wraith. Like something inside of her had shut down. The only person Sam had ever seen get under her skin had been Dean, and other than himself, the only person he'd ever see Dean open up to was Brenna. Not that she gave him much of a choice…

Thinking that Dean could potentially be awhile, he carefully shrugged into a long-sleeved shirt, slowly buttoning it up. Holding his arm stiffly at his side, he grabbed the note and went into the kitchen to find some aspirin. He flicked on the kitchen light and saw that the bottle was sitting on the counter where Brenna had left it after handing some to Dean just before they'd left for the stone church. He popped three into his mouth and ducked his head under the faucet to swallow some water.

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he grabbed the note. It was Dean's handwriting. He frowned.

_Sammy_

_You know I'll always watch out for you. But I gotta do this. I gotta bring him back for her and get rid of this thing. Before it hurts you again. Before it hurts anyone else. I'll be back. I promise._

_Dean_

"God_dammit_, Dean," he roared. Crumpling the paper in his fist, he stormed out of the house. He saw immediately that the Impala was missing from its parking space in front of the bar. A light from the garage caught his eye and he turned to head in that direction instead.

"Always thinking _you_ have to fix it," Sam grumbled to himself as he approached the garage. "Can't wait for help, can't let _anyone_ help you…"

The garage looked like it had been ground zero for a nuclear explosion. The only thing not on the floor or in pieces was the Grande National. His eyes scanned the room, looking for evidence of his brother or Brenna. If Dean had taken her with him and left Sam behind he was seriously going to kick someone's ass.

"Brenna!" Sam bellowed. He heard a thump and a muffled curse coming from the back of the Grande National. He turned and grabbed the handle, yanking the back door open.

Brenna was sitting up, the coat that had been covering her sliding off of her shoulders. Her face was puffy from sleep, and she was rubbing the top of her head. Sam saw a half-empty bottle of tequila on the floor of the car. He raised an eyebrow.

"Sam? Wha--"

"Let's go," Sam said, in no mood for a witch with a hangover.

"What? Go where?"

"After Dean," he said. "Are you still drunk?"

She shoved her hands through her hair, pushing it away from her face and tucking it behind her ears. "I never got there in the first place," she pouted.

"Well good," Sam grumbled. "Get out of there. We have to go get him."

Brenna pushed the coat off of her and scooted out of the back seat. He blinked. She had what looked like a bruise on her bottom lip and she was pulling her torn blouse together with one hand to shield herself from Sam's eyes.

"What happened to you?" he asked, suddenly angry and afraid he'd been out longer than he thought. Had Eamon and his boys returned?

"Nothing," she snapped, then pushed past him to head toward the house.

"Brenna," Sam called after her, following her swift stride as she slammed through the door and headed to her room. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Sam," she called back over her shoulder.

He stopped outside of her room, pacing the narrow space of the hall while she changed her clothes. She emerged a few minutes later wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and a different pair of jeans. She was hopping, pulling the jean cuffs down over her brown boots.

"What makes you think Dean wants us to go get him?" she dropped her booted foot and straightened, her eyes shifting quickly to his shoulder, then back to his face.

"I don't give a damn if wants us to or not. We're going," Sam said, turning from her and heading back down the stairs and to the kitchen where Dean had left the duffel with what remained of their weapons.

"Maybe he just needs to be alone, Sam," Brenna continued as she followed him. "He's… he's been through a lot lately."

Sam whirled on her. "Don't you think I know that?" he yelled. "I've been watching him disintegrate in front of me for the past two months."

He reached into the duffel and grabbed his pistol, forgetting for a moment that he had a series of stitches in his right shoulder. It throbbed once, hard, and he gasped, closing his eyes as the world tilted around him. He grabbed the edge of the table for balance.

"You okay?" Brenna asked. He opened his eyes to see her reach for him.

_No I'm not okay… my brother is out there alone fighting off an evil that he wouldn't let me face on my own… and I know he's hurting… and I'm scared to death that I'm going to lose him…_

"I'm fine," Sam snapped, trying the phrase on for size. Brenna dropped her hand and narrowed her eyes. "Listen," Sam continued. "He went back to the church."

"What?!" her eyes widened. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"Because I just need you to trust me on this without twenty minutes of exposition!" Sam yelled, slamming the pistol down on the table and reaching back into the bag. The only useful weapon left inside was Dean's knife. And that would only come in handy if they ran into the human monsters while taking out the spirit…

"_He went back to the church_ is hardly exposition, Sam," Brenna yelled, reaching into a kitchen drawer and retrieving her Glock. She checked the load and flicked the safety on. "Dammit, I probably pushed him to do it…" she muttered.

"What was that?" Sam asked, shoving his pistol into his back waistband.

"He came to check on me…" Brenna said, leading the way to the door. They went outside and to the garage. "I was angry. Things…got a little out of hand."

Sam followed her, frowning. Dean rarely let things get out of hand. Especially with women. Sam may not know much about his brother's love life, but he did know that when it came to women, for Dean, it was all about control. "Is that how your lip got bruised?"

"Yes," she said, opening the driver's side door of the Grande National and climbing in without looking at him or giving him the option to drive. He moved to the passenger side, so accustomed to Dean driving that he didn't really think about it.

Pulling the pistol from his waistband and sliding it under the front of the seat in an automatic movement, Sam slid into the car, still frowning. "Dean… _hit_ you?"

Brenna shot him an incredulous look. "Hell, no!" she said, bending forward and shoving her keys into the ignition. "Jesus, Sam, sometimes I wonder if you know him at all."

Sam clenched his jaw, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

"Let's get something straight," he said to her as she pulled away from the garage. His voice was low and he held his anger close to him. "I know my brother better than anyone. I know that he can be an ass, I know that he is insanely loyal, and I know he would die for me without giving it a second thought."

"Well, we agree there," she muttered.

"I know that he cares about you," Sam said, his eyes tracking from the road in front of them to Brenna's profile. "But… just because you can see things doesn't mean you know him."

Brenna blinked. He watched as she lifted her chin and curled her fingers around the steering wheel in a tighter grip. He didn't know why the idea that Brenna might know more about his brother than he did bothered him to such an extent, other than the fact that he'd been trying unsuccessfully to get Dean to open up to him for months now. Every time Sam caught a glimpse behind the wall, he seemed to freeze or be incapable of handling the burden his brother bore every day. _He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy… _

"Fair enough," she said softly. "I, uh… I used him. Not that he wasn't willing, but I pushed him on purpose so that I could… feel something other than…" her voice caught.

Sam softened. "I got it," he said.

"Why would he go by himself?" she wondered as they continued to barrel down the dark road, the Grande National's headlights their only guide to a safe path.

"To keep me out of it," Sam said. "To keep me safe."

"Which is, of course, why we're heading there after him," she said.

"Exactly," Sam ignored her sarcasm. "Dean may be willing to die for me, but I… I need him to..." He rubbed his face with his left hand. "I… just need him."

The dull ache in his arm was beginning to recede thanks to the aspirin, but he ached in places aspirin wouldn't reach. He had ached for months… since the cabin… since walking in and seeing Dean hold the Colt on their Dad…

"How long ago did he leave?" Brenna asked.

Sam looked over at her. "I was hoping you could tell me that." He glanced at the radio dial. It read 2:23. Very, very a.m. "What time was it when you…"

"Around eleven I think," she answered and he saw her eyes shift to the clock read-out.

Sam's gut clenched. "Drive faster."

www

"Smart, Winchester, real smart," Dean grumbled, slamming the trunk of the Impala closed. He'd been so focused on getting that damn note to Sam that he hadn't thought to check their flashlights. The batteries were dead in both. "Hard enough to see as it is…" he grumbled, digging into the pocket of his cargo jacket for a lighter. He'd lost his Zippo in Texas when they set old Mordecai Murdock's hell house on fire. Since then, he'd had to settle for a Bic.

He glanced at his watch before he started inside. There was just enough light to see the white hands on his watch face. Midnight. The witching hour.

"No problem, just get in, get the banishing spell, get Declan, get out," he muttered, approaching the door. "And now I'm talking to myself…"

Out of desperation or greed, Dean wasn't sure which, Declan had been compelled to unleash a power that could spell ruin for those the old man had loved... for those Dean loved. Dean's only advantage was that the wraith was tied to the object it protected. An object that was apparently important enough to Jack Collins's group that they were willing to risk the awakening of a wraith to get it... Dean moved quietly into the sanctuary, the starlight outside offering no solace inside the stone building. He flicked his lighter on, holding it high to see his way clear through the rotting pews to the altar in the back. Flanking the burnished cross on the altar were two brass urns filled with some sort of liquid. Dean looked up, expecting to see holes in the wooden roof. As he did so, his eyes caught on two candelabras fixed to the wall on either side of the altar; one was empty, the other had two candles still in it.

"Yahtzee," he commented, setting his shotgun down and grasping one of the candles.

He lit it, put his lighter back into his pocket, and shifted the candle to his left hand, picking up the shotgun with his right. He made his way carefully through the back preparation room, down the stairs, and started down the hall that led to the crypt room.

His steps echoed eerily off the stone floor. It sometimes surprised him that even after all the evil they'd hunted, all the spooks they'd killed, he could still get creeped out by the dark. Sometimes the possibility of fear was worse than the reality. He made his way to the crypt room and stepped through the door.

The smell of death was just as potent as it had been that afternoon. He knew that he would get used to it in a moment, but he had to put the back of his hand over his mouth and breathe shallowly. He instead smelled the gun oil and rock salt in the shotgun gripped in his hand. He made his way to Declan, walking around to stand next to the body.

"Hey old man," he whispered. "Sorry… we didn't get here in time."

He wondered briefly if John had gotten that message how differently this whole situation would have turned out. He wondered if John would have heeded Declan's plea to not send Dean and Sam. He still wondered why, other than guilt for what Declan had put them through during their last encounter, Declan had said not to send them.

Dean crouched down, setting the shotgun next to him. He held the candle high and began to search Declan's body for the banishing spell. He tucked into the inner pockets of Declan's coat, pulling out some track tickets, a folded racing form, and a picture of Brenna. Dean paused and looked at the picture. She couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. It was summer, and she was wearing shorts and a pink and white-striped tank top. Her red-gold hair was hanging down her back and she was grinning impishly at the camera.

Dean smiled softly at the picture. A person can change a lot in fifteen years. But he could still see that smile in the adult face he'd studied, touched. He put the picture in the back pocket of his jeans and continued his search of Declan, rolling him over to reach his back pockets. As he did so, he realized the body had been lying on something. Holding the candle closer he saw what looked like a small gold cup, no bigger than a wine glass.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered in admiration. "You found it."

He glanced quickly around, completely expecting the wraith to be standing above him as it had before. He continued his frantic search of Declan's pockets and paused when he felt paper crumple under his hands. He reached into the pocket and pulled out two pieces of paper that matched the lists they'd been looking through earlier.

He looked at both. They were in Latin.

"Thank God it's not Gaelic," he muttered, holding the candle closer.

He made it half way down the page of the first paper before he realized that it was the summoning spell. He tossed it down. Setting the candle on the lower ledge of the cement crypt, he began reading the second paper aloud. He no sooner had gotten two words of the spell out when he felt a mighty pull on his torso, lifting him from his crouched position and throwing him back into the wall of urns with a bone-jarring force.

The impact shook him and he felt himself slide weakly to the floor. His vision swam and he blinked hard, shaking his head. He saw the wraith standing over the crypt, just above Declan and the Ardagh. And his shotgun.

Pulling in a breath, Dean started to scramble forward to reach his gun, but felt that pull again, this time stronger. The side of his head slammed into the stone wall and he cried out. The impact opened a cut on his cheek and bloodied his nose. He lay still for a moment, willing the world to slow its suddenly frenetic spin. He had to get that shotgun.

He took another moment to catch his breath, then lifted his head slowly to see the wraith standing where it had been before, looking down at the Ardagh. Bracing himself, Dean rolled from his huddle on the floor, over the top of the shotgun, and came up with the weapon in his hand. He didn't pause to aim, he just fired. Again, the wraith disappeared in silence.

Not wasting time, Dean grabbed the Ardagh and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He couldn't hold Declan, the gun, and the candle, so he set the candle on top of the crypt where it would give off the most light for the longest amount of time and hoped his memory would guide him out of there. He gripped the banishing spell in his teeth so that he could get to it in a hurry. Picking up the shotgun in his left hand, he rolled Declan to his back with his right and grabbed the front of the dead man's jacket. With a mighty heave, growling through the pain the exertion caused, he hefted the body over his shoulder.

The candle's waning light helped him navigate the stairs out of the crypt room, but when he got to the long hall, he was enveloped in darkness. He bounced off the opposite wall before he knew it was there. Pain sliced through his head, setting his world spinning and he almost went down to his knees. He shook his head, adjusting his grip on Declan's body. He kept his left arm out to his side, his shotgun gripped tightly, and used the rock wall to guide himself down the dark hall, passed the empty rooms and to the base of the stairs. When the toe of his boot thunked against the stone step, he almost whimpered in relief.

He was so close. Up the stairs, through the sanctuary, out the door, back to Sam. He started up the stairs, his legs heavy from exhaustion, his head thrumming with renewed pain. He was so tired. So tired… He just wanted to give in, to lie down and to let it all go, just this once…

_My brother…he could die without me_… The memory slammed into him so fast, he tripped on the stairs and Declan nearly slid from his shoulder. He gasped and blinked, afraid to actually be seeing something before his eyes instead of the inky blackness he should be seeing.

_Maybe he will, maybe he won't… _A woman with dark hair and gentle eyes was staring at him. Dean couldn't breathe. He tried to shake off the image, tried to force his body to move again. _It's an honorable death…a warrior's death…_

"Wha-" Dean's head was spinning. The paper with the banishing spell fell from his mouth. He couldn't see it in the blackness. "Get a grip, Dean," he muttered. He let Declan slide to the stone steps, and reached into his pocket for his lighter. Holding it aloft, he flicked it on, searching the dim stairwell for the spell. He found it and grabbed it with the same hand he held the shotgun.

Letting his lighter go out, he stuffed it back in his pocket and reached down for Declan's collar.

"Sorry, man," he muttered, tasting blood in his mouth. It was still free-flowing from his nose and the cut on his cheek. He turned away from Declan and spit, trying to rid his mouth of the coppery taste. He started back up the stairs, dragging Declan behind him, unable to summon the strength to once again lift the body over his shoulder.

The odd memory was haunting him. Who was that woman? Why was he thinking of her now? Was Sam in trouble? Maybe it wasn't a memory… maybe it was like one of Sam's visions… but he'd be damned if he let Sam die a warriors death, honorable or not. Sam was _not_ going to die. Not if he had anything to say about it.

He reached the top of the stairs, stumbling when he tried to step up once more. He knew the door to the sanctuary was directly in front of the staircase. He stuck his gun hand out, reaching for the doorframe as he moved forward.

He breached the threshold, and paused for breath, and released Declan next to the altar. Feeling blindly along the wall, he found the candelabra and fumbled along the empty holders until he found the remaining candle. Leaning against the wall, he lit the candle and turned to grab Declan again.

The wraith stood in the doorway.

"Shit!" He fired blindly with his left hand and missed. The wraith moved forward, its pale, featureless face reflecting the wavering candlelight. Dean dropped the shotgun and started to back away, reading aloud from the banishing spell as he did.

This time the pull on him was almost as painful as the abrupt stop when he was slammed back into the altar. He felt something give in his chest; he couldn't breathe. He simply held onto the spell and the candle, amazed that the flame still flickered. The altar rocked with the force of his impact, then settled. The cross slid off the back and the liquid-filled urns toppled, spilling their contents across the stone floor.

Dean dragged in a breath, wheezing through more of the spell, picking up where he left off. He could barely hear his own voice, but he knew all that mattered was that the words were spoken aloud.

"_Abyssus abyssum invocat," _he whispered. "_A posse ad esse…" _

This time he didn't even get a chance to stand. The wraith advanced, lifting him from his huddled position beneath the altar and sent him across the sanctuary. He slammed into a pew with a cry of pain, knocking the time-worn bench backwards into another causing a deafening domino effect throughout the empty room. He felt blood running down the back of his head into his collar and a sharp pain stabbed his side with every wheezing breath. The candle flew from his grasp, falling into the pool of liquid spilled from the urns.

Rather than be extinguished, the flame ignited the liquid, spreading quickly across the stone floor and eating its way up the wooden altar and the rotting wooden pews. _You gotta be kidding me_, Dean thought, watching the fire quickly surround him. _What the hell was that? Oil? Incense? _He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled violently and he collapsed back onto the cold stone. He blinked, trying desperately to ward off the darkness. Giving into unconsciousness now would spell his death.

He weakly pushed himself over onto his back, trying to pull air into his tortured lungs. The heat from the fire was growing closer and he pulled himself away from the pews toward the stained glass windows in a slow backwards crawl. A sharp pain sliced through the palm of his hand and he realized that he was crawling across the glass shattered by Brenna earlier that day… or had it been yesterday… He couldn't think… couldn't breathe…

He looked back toward the altar, seeing Declan's body slumped there, the fire approaching slowly. He'd let Brenna down again… and if he didn't summon the strength to pull himself out of the church, he was going to break his promise to Sam. And that he could _not_ do.

The air began to fill with smoke and he kept his head low. Coughing as the tainted air choked his throat and filled his lungs, he winced. He could see the side door Sam had been thrown out of earlier. He just had to get there. He began to slowly pull his way across the glass, trying to keep his clothes between the shards and his skin.

He hadn't moved two feet when he saw it. The wraith. Standing between him and freedom. He rolled to his side, lifting his hands in an automatic denial.

As the wraith advanced, its maw opening in a twisted version of a lovers kiss, Dean felt a strange pull – like static electricity – and knew it was his life beginning to ebb away. Without warning, the pain increased, intensified. All of his nerve endings were on fire. It felt like the wraith was pulling the blood from his body through his pores. His back arched against the pain and he screamed, unable to keep the agony at bay, unable to hold the resistance inside, unable to fight.

The pain was worse than the slicing pain of the demon pulling his heart from his chest. It was worse than the banshee's stabbing nails. It was worse than the werewolf's slashing claws. He screamed until he had no air and then his mouth remained open in silent agony, his eyes closed tight against the reality of death.

For one brief moment, the wraith paused, and Dean collapsed back onto the stone floor, trembling, almost whimpering. His whole body shook, his head spun, his heart stuttered. He didn't know why it stopped, but breathing for just one moment more was okay with him. Then he realized. The Ardagh. In his pocket. He felt his body being shifted slightly and knew the wraith was going to take it from him. He could no longer see the banishing spell, but he knew the last line.

"_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..." _His voice was a thought, a whisper of hope. But it was his voice. And it was the end. The wraith shuddered, reached out, and with a sound like a star imploding, vanished, leaving Dean trembling and gasping for air, his broken body limp on the stone floor of the burning church.

As he worked to keep breathing, keep the air moving in and out, keep his heart beating, he realized that he was fighting a losing battle. The wraith had pulled a piece of him away. And without that piece, Dean couldn't save himself. His eyes fluttered shut as the heat of the fire licked at his face. His last conscious thought before slipping into the waiting darkness was _Sammy_…

www

"Do you see that?"

"What? See what?"

"Oh my God," Sam whispered. "It's on fire. The church is on fire!"

Brenna floored the car down the gravel path and skidded to a stop just beyond the leaping flames that shot from the roof and out of the windows of the stone church. Sam didn't wait for her to shift into park; he had his door open and was running toward the building, holding his wounded arm close to him as he ran.

"Brenna, call 911!"

"SAM!" Brenna was shouting. "Wait – you can't go in there!"

Sam stopped just outside of the church, looking back at her briefly. "Dean's in there!"

"You don't know that," she panted, reaching him.

"Yes, I do," Sam nodded. He turned back to the building, pulling in a lungful of cool night air, and plunged into the fire.

The heat was intense; it burned his eyes, singed his hair, and sucked the cool air from his lungs, causing him to double over, gasping for breath. It was slightly cooler the closer he got to the ground. Squinting, water streaming from his eyes, he peered through the smoke and flames, moving carefully to what he remembered was the front of the sanctuary.

"Dean!" He called. The fire stole his voice and tossed it back at him, mocking his efforts. He continued forward, defying the power of the flames. "DEAN!"

He saw a figure slumped against the wall near the altar. He hurried forward, the heat of the fire pulling tears from his eyes, blurring his vision. The flames from the burning altar had taken over and were burning the figure's pant legs. Sam beat out the flames with his cast, preferring bruises to burns. He could barely see; the smoke was almost overpowering. Coughing violently, Sam leaned over and pulled him up, shifting the dead weight over his left shoulder. He turned and moved as swiftly as the fire would allow back through the sanctuary. He stumbled through the door and dropped his burden unceremoniously onto the hard earth as he fell to his knees in a fit of coughing.

"Sam!" Brenna grabbed his arm, heedless of his wound, and pulled him up and away.

"Get him," Sam croaked, grimacing as he felt the stitches in his shoulder give. His lungs ached, and he wiped furiously at the water streaming from his eyes.

He felt Brenna release him and a second later he heard her cry out. He blinked over at her. "Is he okay?"

"Sam, it's Da!"

"What?!"

"It's Declan," she said and he heard the sob in her voice.

"Oh God," Sam groaned, looking back over his shoulder at the flames engulfing the doorway. He pushed himself to his feet, gripping his right arm with his left hand, feeling wetness there from the torn stitches.

"There's gotta be another way in…" Sam's dark eyes searched the flames. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Flames shot from the doorway and forced him to stumble back a step.

"You _can't. _It's too hot!" Brenna cried, tears flowing freely down her face as she gripped the body of her grandfather to her.

"Stop it!" Sam yelled, turning to her. "I'm not going to leave him in there, do you hear me? He pulled me from a fire twice. I'm getting him back."

"But, Sam—"

"I'M GETTING HIM BACK," Sam yelled, his heart in his throat, his eyes blurring. He turned from her, frantically searching the burning building for an answer, another way in. He couldn't lose Dean, not now… not when he was just starting to get through, not when he _so badly_ needed Dean to save him…

"The side door," Brenna suddenly yelled.

_Of course_, he thought, turning instantly on his heel and heading around the burning church to the side door next to the cemetery. Taking a breath, he ducked low under the flames and the billowing black smoke and crawled into the building using just his left hand, his right held protectively against him, covering his mouth and nose with his right hand.

Sam blinked against the heat. _Where is he… gotta find him… _He shuffled across broken glass, hissing as a shard sliced his hand. Squinting his eyes against the smoke, he tried to peer through the burning pews. As he shuffled forward again, his hand hit something solid, something leather. A boot. His eyes flew over to see his brother sprawled on the floor under the partially shattered stained glass windows.

Dean's face was bloody and bruised. Sam could see bruises on his hands and neck, too. He crawled closer to him, pressing a shaky hand on Dean's neck, praying. He felt the faint thrumming there beneath his fingers – not strong, but enough to show him Dean was still with him. He looked back over to the doorway he'd crawled in and thought quickly how best to get Dean out of there when he could only use one arm.

Just then, a horrendous cracking sounded from above him. He looked up quickly and realized the fire-weakened roof was starting to come down. Bits of flaming wood fell down around them, sizzling when it hit hands, his cheeks. He brushed it off of Dean when the pieces of fiery shrapnel landed on his brother. Coughing violently, he leaned over Dean and tried to pull him up against him with his left arm. Dean was dead weight. His head lolled against Sam's wounded shoulder and Sam bit back a cry of pain.

The cracking increased in volume and suddenly a beam fell into the middle of the sanctuary. Sam cried out in surprise and fear. He curved his broad shoulders around Dean's face and chest as the shower of sparks rained down on them. He started to scoot slowly back toward the door, dragging Dean with him when another beam fell, this one close, effectively blocking his path of escape.

The heat was beginning to suffocate him. He curled himself around Dean's limp form, shaking from the effort of the coughs, wiping the fire-induced tears from his eyes. Dean's chest barely moved with the motion of his shallow breathing. His skin was hot from the flames, his body completely lax in Sam's arms, as if he'd already surrendered to the inevitable.

"Not yet," he whispered in Dean's ear. "Not yet, Dean… "

"SAM!"

Brenna's voice sounded light years away. He lifted his swollen eyes, squinting from the heat.

"Sam… the window!"

He looked at the stained glass windows above them. The burning ceiling beam had cut them off from the ones that were empty of glass, but the ones directly above him looked wide enough… if he could just break out the rest of the glass… He adjusted Dean against him, searching for something on the ground heavy enough to break the glass, wishing he'd kept his pistol, and suddenly felt something in Dean's jacket pocket. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a gold cup of some kind, heavy and solid.

Coughing, he reared back and with his best left-arm throw, he tossed it through the closest window, shattering the remaining glass.

"Sam!" Brenna's voice sounded closer.

"I got him!" Sam yelled hoarsely. _I got you, Dean… I won't let go…_

Clumsily he pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his shoulder pulled and as more sparks rained down on them from another falling beam. Gritting his teeth, he slid Dean's cargo jacket off of his brother's body and slung it over the base of the window to protect them from the bits of glass still embedded in the window sill. He then hooked his arm under Dean's arms and across his chest. He pulled him up and slumped him over the windowsill on top of the jacket. Smoke poured out of the window above their heads. Peering over Dean's prone form, Sam saw that the ground was about two feet down. He scooped up Dean's legs, pushed him over the ledge, and let him drop the rest of the way.

"I've got him, Sam," Brenna called. Sam could barely see her pulling Dean away from the window by his wrists. "Get the hell out of there!"

Sam didn't need to be told twice. He reached up to grasp the window ledge with his left hand and swung a leg over the sill, straddling the opening for a moment before dropping to the ground just as Brenna pulled Dean out of the way. He heard more beams fall into the sanctuary as the wail of the fire engine sirens echoed in the distance.

He stumbled to his feet and helped Brenna pull Dean further from the fire. They all collapsed in a heap just outside of the front gate of the cemetery. Sam couldn't stop coughing. He gasped desperately for breath between hacks, spitting out black phlegm when he was able to breathe. He held his shoulder tight in an effort to stave off the sharp pain lancing through the wound. Brenna lifted his chin, looking at his eyes. He pushed her hand away and moved to Dean.

Dean was pale beneath the blood and the bruises. His breathing was there, but shallow. His face was still hot. Sam pushed the sleeve of his shirt up and saw that the bruising on his hands and neck traveled up his arms. He ran a careful hand over the back of Dean's head and it came away bloody.

"God, Dean," he rasped. "What the hell happened to you in there?"

"Sam," Brenna said, her eyes on the fire engines.

Sam's instinct was to gather his brother up and run, but he could barely stand. He couldn't take a deep breath without coughing. And he had to get his brother some help.

"Bring them over," he whispered, pulling Dean's upper body close to him, wrapping his left arm carefully around him. Dean's head rolled to the side. Sam sat still, holding Dean, watching the firemen and women pour from the trucks, turn water onto the fire, do their jobs. He saw an EMT ambulance open its back doors when Brenna approached. He saw her gesture back to them, then over to where she'd laid her grandfather in the grass.

Sam thought fast. Cover story, fake names… He had to keep it simple, keep it straight, keep them out of trouble.

"You okay, kid?" the man who approached him carried a portable oxygen tank and a red med kit.

Sam nodded, but started coughing. Another man and two women carrying an orange backboard followed him. Before Sam could say anything else, the oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and nose and he could suddenly breathe again. Cool air flowed in and the heavy ache in his lungs began to recede. He blinked in weakened bliss. Then he felt someone trying to pull Dean from him and he pulled away from the oxygen, tightening his arm around his brother.

"It's okay," the man with the oxygen mask said. He had blue eyes with deep lines at the corners. "They're gonna take care of him. Just let him go…"

"No," Sam croaked. He couldn't let him go… he'd promised.

"You can stay with him," the blue-eyed man said. Sam decided to call him Sinatra. Dean would think that was funny. "You just gotta let him go for a minute."

Sam knew that what Sinatra was saying should make sense. He knew that they were there to help. He knew that Dean needed help. He just couldn't make his arm move. He lifted watery eyes to Sinatra's, silently pleading for help.

"It's okay, kid," Sinatra repeated, placing the oxygen back on Sam's face and easing Sam's arm away with a gentle hand. "He'll be right here, okay?"

Sam nodded, keeping his eyes on the man and two women who wrapped a C-collar on Dean before lifting him from Sam's lap and laying him carefully on the orange backboard. They were talking in rapid, staccato bursts of sound as they checked Dean's eyes, his pulse, his blood pressure. One hooked a saline IV up to Dean's right arm. Another spoke into a black walkie-talkie. The third began to carefully roll her fingers over Dean's chest and belly, reporting to her findings to the team. Sam could see their mouths moving, but it was as though they were speaking another language. He couldn't understand a word coming from the group and he couldn't seem to tear his eyes from Dean's soot-covered face so still above the C-collar.

"What's his name, kid?" asked the man who was holding the IV bag above Dean's body.

"D-Dean," Sam croaked out. He couldn't think of a cover name that his brother would respond to from this state. Dean needed to hear his own name.

"Let's get you two checked out, okay?" Sinatra said, holding the oxygen mask on Sam's face with one hand, and gently examining his now-bleeding shoulder with the other.

Sam nodded and allowed Sinatra to pull him up. He wavered a moment, but with the help of the fireman's strong arm, he was able to follow the trio to the ambulance. They loaded Dean onto the stretcher, and then Sinatra helped Sam inside to the waiting hands of the male EMT.

The doors shut and only when the ambulance started to pull away did Sam remember Brenna. He looked out of the back window and saw her standing in the gravel road, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, silhouetted by the burning church behind her.

Three hours later, Sam was sitting in a ridiculously curved plastic orange chair, his elbows on his knees, his head in his left hand. His cast had taken on a grey hue, thanks to the smoke. His chest still ached from the smoke he inhaled, but he'd been assured that would pass in a day or two. They had examined and cleaned his shoulder, replaced the stitches, and redressed the wound. He'd been offered a sling, which he refused. A soft-voiced nurse had given him a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers. His various burns has been salved and treated, and the slice on his palm from the shattered glass had been stitched.

He was informed that he should go home and rest. He politely told them to go to hell. He wasn't going anywhere until they let him see his brother, whom they'd wheeled away from him in a flurry of words and action that Sam didn't understand. So he waited.

A cup of coffee was suddenly thrust under his nose. He clenched his teeth to hold back the bile that immediately rose to his throat at the smell. He sat up, raising his eyes to meet Brenna's.

"Hey," he rasped.

"Hey," she whispered. "No?" she asked indicating the coffee.

He shook his head and waved it off. She sat next to him and sipped the hot beverage.

"No word yet?"

Sam shook his head, his throat still rather raw. "Declan?"

"They took him to the, uh, morgue."

Sam nodded. "Will they…"

"Do an autopsy? I don't know. Probably." Her throat worked and she blinked a few times. Sam realized that she was working to hold back tears. He resisted the automatic urge to comfort her. Instinctively, he recognized that comfort was not what she needed at the moment. "Pretty suspicious circumstances, don't you think?"

"You can stop it," Sam said, clearing his throat. "The autopsy I mean."

"Yeah," she whispered, looking at Sam out of the corner of her eyes. "I could just take him."

Sam nodded. "That's one way."

"I brought the Impala," she said, handing him the keys.

"Thanks, Brenna," he whispered. "But… how…"

"Don't worry, Sam," she smiled and stroked a slim finger down his cheekbone, wiping off a line of soot that hadn't been cleaned off when they checked him out. "I know my way home."

"Mr. McGillicuddy?"

Sam shot to his feet. "That's me," he said, turning from Brenna's surprised eyes to face the doctor who was looking down at a clipboard.

"Your brother's stable," the doctor informed him. "But I have to say, his injuries are…"

"What?" Sam prompted.

"Well, you said he was attacked at that abandoned church before you were caught in the fire?"

Sam nodded.

"Whatever… weapon… they used on him caused bruising that I've never seen before," the doctor sighed, rubbing his eyes and then looking at Sam. "He has a concussion, which I suspect he had already based on the sutured cut we discovered on his temple. We stitched up the back of his head. He has two broken and one cracked rib, right side, but it looks like they'd been broken before."

"He, uh, has a physically…demanding job," Sam replied when the doctor looked at him, pointedly.

"And that would be?"

"Uh—" Sam coughed, buying himself some time. "He's uh, a bull rider," he supplied when he could breathe again.

"Well, I would highly recommend you try talking your brother out of doing that much longer," the doctor commented. "His bruising is… extensive, to say the least."

"When can he leave?"

The doctor sighed, almost like he had expected this question. "We really need to keep him here for observation for a few days. Amazingly, there doesn't seem to be any internal bleeding, but, with the beating he took…" the doctor shook his head. "His lungs sustained some damage from the fire, and until he really wakes up, we don't know how severe the concussion is."

"Can I see him?" Sam asked, trying hard not to bounce on the balls of his feet.

"Of course," the doctor turned and led the way. Sam glanced over his shoulder at Brenna. She smiled at him, waving him on.

"I'll catch up," she said, biting her lip.

Sam nodded and followed the doctor into Dean's room. Sam stopped short of approaching Dean's bed. Dean lay still, just a shade darker than the pillow his light brown head rested on. Purple smudges of exhaustion swept the base of his eyes, hidden only by his lashes. His neck, arms, and hands – the only other parts of him that were visible beneath the blankets – were covered in the angry bruises that Sam had noticed before. He had butterfly bandages on the cut across his cheek bone, the white of the tape contrasting sharply with the scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. An oxygen cannula was across his face.

Sam was trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to remember that this time they hadn't told him _a month at the most_.

"Has he woken up?" Sam whispered.

"Once," the doctor said.

"Did he say anything?"

"He was pretty out of it," the doctor commented. "He just said _I was going to go with her_."

Sam looked over at the doctor. "With her?"

The doctor shrugged. "I was hoping you could tell us."

Sam shook his head and looked back at Dean. He moved forward, shoving the empty chair close to his brother's bed. He sat down and reached up with a trembling hand to lightly touch Dean's fingers.

"I'll come back to check on you in a few hours. There's some paperwork we'll need you to fill out," the doctor said.

Sam barely registered that he'd left. He was looking at Dean's face. Thinking that he'd seen his brother in a hospital bed one too many times in their young lives. Thinking that Dean's quest to keep Sam safe, to watch out for him, was going to get him killed one day. Thinking that they both might be better off if Sam really did leave. Thinking that he knew deep down, if he ever did that, Dean would come looking for him.

"You'd find me," Sam whispered, staring at Dean, but not really seeing him.

"You leavin'?" The voice was like sandpaper on rock, but it was Dean.

Sam blinked, surprised to find his brother's eyes open and on him. The paleness of his features made his green eyes look impossibly large, but even in this moment, Sam saw that they were shuttered; hiding something that Sam couldn't understand.

"No, man," Sam shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good," Dean whispered, and closed his eyes once more.

Sam watched him sleep, and when he was sure that Dean wouldn't pull away, he curled his fingers around Dean's, anchoring himself. He was so tired. He leaned forward, rested his forehead on the bed next to Dean's arm, careful not to touch any of the bruises, and closed his eyes.

www

Dean knew he was in a hospital even before he opened his eyes. He could tell by the smell. The antiseptic that it seemed all hospitals used overpowered even the residual ashy smell of the fire on his skin and in his hair. He didn't want to open his eyes and see the white walls and white curtains and white sheets. He just wanted to fall back into the blackness. He wanted to sleep, to rest, to run away.

There was not one place on his body that didn't hurt. The ache varied from an intense sharp pain in his chest to a soreness of muscles along his legs and arms. His head throbbed and he could feel the pinch of the IV in the crook of his arm. Whatever they were giving him, it wasn't strong enough. He longed for oblivion; instead, he forced his eyes open.

He could feel the annoying hiss of air from the cannula as it pumped oxygen into his nose. He blinked slowly, trying to bring the blurry white world into focus and lifted an uncoordinated hand to pull the plastic tubing away from his face. He dropped his hand back wearily, closing his eyes. His right hand was tingling and he tried to rotate his wrist to relieve the pins and needles feeling, when he suddenly noticed his brother was attached to it.

"Sammy." His voice was a hoarse mockery of sound. His throat protested the assault and his lungs ached beneath the sharp pain in his ribs.

"Five minutes, Dean." Sam's mop of brown hair covered part of Dean's arm, but Dean saw that he'd rested his forehead on the bed careful not to touch any of the bruising that literally covered Dean's body.

"Sam, wake up."

Sam groaned, half-heartedly trying to push Dean away, then he suddenly, truly woke up. He sat up abruptly and looked at Dean with wide eyes. "Dean?"

"You awake?" Dean swallowed, watching Sam's eyes take in his face. He saw how carefully Sam was holding his right arm close to him.

"I'm awake," Sam nodded, blinking. He rotated his neck with a barely suppressed groan. Dean imagined he was pretty stiff and sore from his chosen sleep position. Not to mention being thrown into a wrought-iron fence.

"You got me out?" Dean rasped, blinking, focusing, breathing. The last thing he remembered was the insane heat of the fire as it hungrily advanced.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, paling slightly.

Dean closed his eyes briefly, pulling his eyebrows together. Sam had come after him. Sam had pulled him from the fire. Sam had been _in_ that fire.

"Sam," Dean opened his eyes and flexed his fingers, watching Sam look down, as though suddenly realizing he was still holding Dean's hand. He let him go and sat back a bit in his chair. "Sam, we have to get out of here."

"Dean, you need to stay –"

"No," Dean shook his head. He winced at the throb that echoed through the back of his head. "We have to get out of here."

"Dean, have you looked at yourself?" Sam dropped his chin, leveling his gaze on Dean's eyes. "What is all that bruising from, man?"

"The wraith," Dean swallowed, blinking once.

"The wraith?"

"I found Declan's banishing spell," Dean said. _God_ he hurt. What was the point of an IV if it wasn't going to bring him relief?

"Hey," Sam was leaning forward, towards him. "Dean?"

"What?"

"You, uh… you went kinda pale there for a second," Sam said, sitting back down slowly, cupping his left hand over his right elbow.

"Your shoulder okay?" Dean felt a cough coming on and tried to resist, knowing how it would wrack through his ribs.

"It'll be fine," Sam let go of his arm as though by the act of holding it he'd given something away. "You banished the wraith?"

Dean nodded, and then coughed a chest rattled burst of air. He pressed a hand to his right side, trying in vain to ease the pain. Sam handed him a spare pillow from the foot of his bed. Dean clasped it to his chest as he continued to cough. When he was done he leaned back weakly on the bed.

"Damn smoke," he breathed. He blinked bleary eyes at his brother. "We have to get out of here, Sam."

"Dean, c'mon, man," Sam's voice sounded young and scared. "Please, just a day. Give it a day."

Dean panted for air, shaking his head. "We may not have a day."

Sam sat back, regarding him, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You think they can find you that fast?"

"If they're looking," Dean nodded, swallowing. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

"I wish you'd let someone take care of you," Sam said softly.

"You will," Dean whispered.

"You just…"

When Sam didn't continue, Dean looked at him. "What?"

"You look tired, man," Sam finished.

Dean blinked, resting back against the pillows. "I am tired, Sam."

_I'm tired of this life… this job… this weight on my shoulders…_ He confessed it once to Sam. He'd been as honest as he could. He couldn't have ended it all – and if Sam had contracted the demonic virus, Dean knew exactly what he would have done -- with John's words still a secret between them. But Sam knew now. Sam knew what John had made Dean promise. Dean looked back over at Sam. His brother's dark eyes were staring at nothing, at the past, into the middle distance, tears swimming there.

"Declan," Dean asked, wincing as his ribs protested.

"We got him out," Sam said, not lifting his eyes. "It almost finished… didn't it?"

"What?"

"The wraith," Sam swallowed, his jaw muscle clenching. He still didn't look up and Dean suddenly found that he needed to see Sam's eyes. He needed to see the continuous questions that forever lurked in their depths. "It almost… took you."

Dean lifted a shoulder. "I finished it before it could finish me," he grinned weakly.

"Too close, man," Sam shifted his gaze over to Dean, blinking. One tear dropped from his eye and made a wet trail down Sam's cheek. Dean felt like a fist wrapped around his heart at the sight of that tear. "It was too close, Dean. If I hadn't woken up when I did… if we hadn't gotten there…"

"But you did, Sammy," Dean said, clearing his throat. He fisted his right hand, then reached for Sam's sleeve. Wrapping his fingers in the soft material, he pulled at Sam's arm, drawing his eyes. "You got there. You got me out."

"This can't keep happening," Sam shook his head, his throat working convulsively.

"What?" Dean rasped.

"This… this double-standard you have for us."

"Aw, Sam, c'mon –"

"No! No, I'm serious, Dean."

Dean tried to take a deep breath, but a harsh beat of pain shot through his side. He settled for breathing shallow, blinking at Sam, waiting him out.

"You tell me I can't go off by myself… like I did," Sam said, his voice trembling slightly from the effort to keep his emotions in check. He stared hard at Dean, and Dean saw the result of his actions echoing in Sam's eyes. "You may not have come right out and said it, but… but I know now that it scared you to wake up and figure out I was gone."

_Hell yeah, it scared me, _Dean thought. "The note," he began.

"A note? A _note_? Dean?"

Dean just blinked.

"You would tie me up and throw me in the trunk of the Impala before you'd let me do what you just did."

_Damn straight, _Dean thought, watching Sam.

"But you don't give it a second thought to leave me behind if you think it will protect me," Sam finished, his lips pressed tight. He pulled his face together to try to still his tears. "Dean… who's gonna save me if you get yourself killed?"

"Sam…" Dean breathed, his chest tight. He only thought about keeping Sam safe.

Sam simply looked at him.

"I didn't think of it like that," Dean finished.

"I know," Sam whispered. "I know you didn't."

"But, uh," Dean swallowed, wincing. "I will now, okay?"

Sam pressed his lips together and nodded. He gently pulled his left arm from Dean's grasp, wiping the back of his hand over his cheek. "So, he really had the banishing spell on him?"

"Not only that," Dean said, thankful for the end of the chick-flick moment. "He found the… the thing."

He watched Sam's eyebrows go up. "The Ardagh?"

"Yeah," Dean blinked, his vision blurring. He was wearing out faster than he realized. He had to get out of the hospital before he passed out again. He knew instinctively that the danger hadn't passed with the banishing of the wraith. "Sam, you gotta get me out."

He pushed himself forward, clumsily lifting the blankets off. Sam stood, shoving the chair away from the bed with the backs of his legs. Dean groaned as he moved his bare legs slowly from the bed to hang off of the side. He was surprised to see the bruising there.

"Dean, seriously—"

"Sam, either help me or get out of my way," Dean panted. Sam didn't move. Dean licked his lips, raising his eyes to meet the frustration in Sam's gaze. "It's not just me, man," he said, his voice rough. "Those guys will be back."

"What guys?"

"The Irish guys," he said, willing Sam to follow his line of thinking. It was becoming too difficult to talk. Sitting put an ungodly amount of pressure on his ribs. He reached over and started to pull the IV from his arm.

"Wait! Wait, I got it, I got it," Sam said, reaching for a piece of gauze and tape that was sitting on a tray on the nightstand next to the bed along with some latex gloves and a suture kit. He reached for Dean's IV, removed the needle with a practiced ease and covered the small, bloody hole with the gauze, taping it in place.

"Dean."

"Mm."

"The Ardagh's a gold wine-glass looking thing, right?"

Dean nodded. He dropped his eyes to Sam's hand, to the leather strap Sam wore around his wrist. He focused on that strap. Pulling air in and easing it out, he focused on that strap, forcing away the blurred edges of his vision, forcing away the darkness that he could feel advancing.

"Shit," Sam muttered.

"What?"

"I threw it out of the window of the church."

"We gotta get it back."

"I know," Sam said. "How you want to do this?"

"Beam me out?"

"Funny," Sam stepped away, and Dean bit back a groan. The strap was gone. His focus was gone. The darkness was coming.

"…get your clothes… have to sneak… Impala in the…"

Sam's voice was fading in and out as though Dean were sinking under water. Water. He needed some. Now.

"Sammy," he rasped. Suddenly Sam was there. Crouched in front of him.

"I'm here," Sam said, his left hand reaching out and wrapping around Dean's shoulder. Dean realized he'd started to tip forward. Sam braced him.

"Water," he said.

Sam straightened and in seconds a white plastic cup was held under his nose. Dean wrapped his fingers around it, drinking greedily. "More."

Sam gave him more, cautioning, "Go easy there, brother."

Dean felt the water travel down his parched throat, seeming to coat his insides with coolness. He took a cautious breath. Pain, yes, but he could see again. His vision balanced. He looked at Sam.

"Better?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, gripping Sam's forearm with his right hand and pulling himself off of the bed. Sam braced him until Dean thought he could balance. He turned to pick up the clothes that Sam had tossed on the bed. They smelled of fire.

As he reached for his boxers, he felt himself tip, and knew he was going down. There was no way he could catch himself. Before he was even off center, he felt Sam's arm snake around his shoulders, catching him, holding him.

"If you're gonna be stubborn about it," Sam said, his voice close to his ear. "At least let me help you get out of here in one piece."

Dean gritted his teeth. He let Sam help him back down on the bed. He looked down at Sam as his brother adjusted his pants so that he could step in. _Thanks for not giving up on me, Sammy…_ The memory came so fast he gasped. He could see himself on a bed, a tube in his mouth. He saw Sam sitting on the edge of the bed, Dad's journal in his hands.

"Dean?"

"What the hell," Dean breathed swaying slightly on the bed, reaching for Sam's shoulder to steady himself.

"You with me?"

"Something's… something's wrong, man," Dean muttered, rubbing his hand over his burning eyes.

"I told you, you need to stay—"

"No, it's not that," Dean said, holding on to Sam's shoulder, trying to ignore the fact that his brother was pulling on his jeans, trying to ignore the deep ache from the bruises on his legs and hips. "I keep… seeing stuff."

Sam's head pulled up, Dean's shirt in his hands. "Stuff?"

"Like… memories… or… I don't know… dreams."

"You mean… like the Ouija board?"

Dean blinked. "Yeah."

Sam helped him pull his arms through the sleeves of his T-shirt, then slowly slipped it over his head. Dean winced as the shirt brushed across the stitches at the back of his head. He felt like friggin' Frankenstein with the amount of stitches he had in his head at the moment. He held still as Sam helped him lower the shirt over his wrapped ribs.

"They're memories, Dean."

Dean blinked in surprise. "Of what?"

"Of," Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, taking a step back. Dean gripped the side of the bed. "Of when we were in the hospital."

"What?"

Sam shrugged. "After the accident."

"But… but I…" Dean looked down at the floor.

"You were in a coma."

"Yeah."

"But… you also… weren't."

Dean looked up, surprised. He opened his mouth to protest when they heard the door click. He froze. Sam stepped around the curtain, looking. Dean heard the door open, heard voices in the hall, heard a woman say that she had to check on the patient in three, then heard her step away, the door shutting. Sam looked back at him.

"We gotta go," they said in unison.

Sam bent down and pulled on Dean's boots. He straightened, and reached out a hand to help Dean stand. "Sorry, man, but, your coat, uh, burned up."

Dean clenched his teeth. "At least I wasn't in it," he said. "Dude, you seen my –"

Sam dug into his pocket and handed him the gold Egyptian amulet hanging from the piece of black leather, and Dean carefully eased it over his head. Dean took one step forward and didn't fall on his face. He considered that positive reinforcement.

"Sam, where is--" he started as they reached the door. Sam held up a hand and Dean leaned against the wall, waiting. Sam stuck his head out of the door, looked both ways, then opened it wide enough for Dean to slink through.

Each step sent a flash of hot pain through his right side and his head started spinning half-way out of the door. He reached out blindly for the wall and caught the sleeve of Sam's shirt instead. Carefully, swiftly, Sam tucked his left arm under Dean's right, bending Dean's arm at the elbow. Dean remained silent until they reached the exit of the ER, appreciating his brother's subtlety.

The cool morning air made his eyes water. He searched the lot for the familiar black shape of home. When he saw the Impala, he felt his shoulders ease. Sam was looking over his shoulder.

"Uh, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Think you can go any faster?"

_God no…_ His vision had started to blur as they walked, but he took a shallow breath and nodded.

"Good, 'cause… we got company," Sam gripped his arm tighter and lengthened his strides.

Dean bit hard on his bottom lip to keep the groan inside. They reached the Impala and Sam leaned Dean against it, unlocking the door. Dean closed his eyes and felt his body trembling against the cool metal of the car. When he heard the familiar creek of the door, he slid gingerly into the passenger seat, leaning against the door as soon as Sam slammed it shut. He blinked as he watched Sam hurry around to the driver's side. Only then did Dean see a man in a white lab coat and two police officers hurrying across the parking lot.

"Hang on to something," Sam said in a low voice, rotating the wheel with the palm of his left hand. Dean would never say it, but he thought Sam was handling his baby remarkably well with one hand.

"What if they follow us?"

"We'll hide the car," Sam said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Dean braced himself against the door, cradling his ribs and breathing in low pants as Sam pulled out onto the road and roared back in the direction of the Kavanagh's bar. The pounding in Dean's head began to increase with Sam's speed. He soon couldn't hear anything over what he assumed was his own heartbeat. He closed his eyes trying to breathe through his nose and quiet the panic growing from the pain inside of him.

_Today's your lucky day kid…_

Dean's eyes flew open with a cry. His vision began to white out, but he could still clearly see the impossibly familiar face… and those eyes. He pressed the palm of his hand to the bridge of his nose.

"Dean!"

"God, Sam, pull over," he groaned. The world was spinning and he was completely certain he was about to fall off.

"We're almost –"

"Now!"

Sam slowed the Impala and pulled over to the side of the road. Dean barely got the door open before he tumbled out and emptied his stomach. The heaves took over and the pain in his ribs canceled out his vision for a moment. He was shaking and didn't realize until he heard Sam's voice repeating _easy, easy now, just take it easy, Dean_, that his brother had gotten out of the car and was standing next to him, a gentle hand on his back. He _hurt_ all over.

His hand shook as he wiped the back of it across his mouth.

"She had yellow eyes," he panted, swallowing.

"Who, Dean?"

"I don't _know,_ dammit!" He was angry at himself, at his weakness. Angry that he was remembering things he shouldn't be able to and that he couldn't figure out why. Angry that Sam was holding him up because he was shaking too badly to do it himself.

"Okay," Sam was saying, his voice low and easy like he was talking to a cornered wild thing. "It's okay, man, we'll figure it out."

"Sam," Dean whispered, leaning back against the door frame. "Where's Brenna?"

"I don't know," Sam answered. "She brought the Impala to the hospital and I haven't seen her since."

"They're gonna come for her," Dean said, closing his eyes, his voice sounding weak to his own ears. "They're gonna come for her."

He felt Sam ease him back onto the seat of the Impala with a grumbled "…never shoulda taken you out of the hospital…"

"Stop it, Sam," Dean said, making his voice as sturdy as possible. "You saw those cops."

"Yeah, I saw 'em."

Sam got back into the car, looked over at Dean, who looked back with careful eyes. He pulled back on the road. They drove the rest of the way to the Kavanagh's in silence, Dean using the time to bring his trembling body under control, to pull the focus of his mind away from his aching body and direct it to the job they still had to do. The minute Sam pulled into the lot between the bar and the house, Dean knew he'd been right: they had come for her, and that he was too late.

Brenna's Grande National was parked between the garage and the house, windows shattered, hood up, and tires flat. As Sam pulled to a stop, Dean's eyes tracked over the house. Every window in the front was smashed, the front door was off its hinges and lying cock-eyed in the doorway, and the spindles from the porch railing were all broken out.

"Holy shit," Sam breathed, shutting off the car and hopping out.

Before Sam could come around to help him out, Dean had opened the door and was painfully pulling his body upright. He scanned the empty lot with anxious eyes, his heart hammering.

"Brenna!" he called, his voice weak, but deep in its fear.

She emerged from the house, her eyes red, her face impassive. He thought she seemed to waver for a moment in the doorway, then realized that it was his vision. He took a couple of unsteady steps toward the house. He felt like he was actually moving backwards when he saw Sam approach the steps hurriedly.

"You okay?" Sam asked Brenna, closing the distance between them with his long-legged stride.

Brenna nodded mutely. She had yet to look at either of them. She sat down heavily on the top step just as Sam reached her. Dean took another step toward them. If he could just make it to the steps…

"They were here," Brenna said in a dull voice. "They were here when I got back."

"Did they hurt you?" Sam asked and Dean watched as he reached out a gentle hand to rest on her shoulder.

She shook her head and Dean felt his heart begin to beat again.

"I have twenty-four hours," she said, her tone unchanged as she lifted her eyes from the ground to look at Sam.

"Or what?" Sam asked. Dean took another step closer to her. He was so close. If he could just make it to the steps…

"Or they t-take everything. Declan's debt is mine," she said, her voice hitching on anger or tears, he couldn't tell. He'd never seen her cry, and he hoped to God he never would. She turned to look at him and Dean felt his heart stop again. Her eyes were her normal green-gold, but he knew he'd seen the devastated look they held before. In Sam's eyes. When they stood in front of their father's funeral pyre.

"Dean?" she said, her eyebrow pulling together, her body tensing as she began to move toward him, her hand reaching out, reaching for him. Dean saw Sam turn to face him.

He knew Sam was trying to reach him before he fell, but as his knees buckled, all he saw were Sam's eyes that night, all he heard was the crackle of the fire, and as he sank to the ground, he swore he could feel it burning him.

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_a/n: I plan on posting a chapter a week until the story is completed. It's outlined as six chapters, but sometimes when the details come, they make it longer… my other stories were supposed to be six chapters, too. ;)_

Translations:

_Abyssus abyssum invocat - Hell calls hell_

_A posse ad esse - From possibility to actuality_

_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti – in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit_

39


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1 _

_a/n: I swear I didn't do this on purpose. I really did have six chapters outlined. But the characters just started talking and before I knew it, this chapter was as long as the others and certain plot points that have to happen hadn't happened yet. Don't know if it will end up being 8 like the others, but it will be more than 6. I hope that it holds your attention that long. As usual, I'm nervous…_

_Thanks for all of your reviews. I find myself being a tad OCD about checking my email to see what you all think. To those who are simply reading, thank you and I hope you are enjoying. For those of you who wanted music, this was a good chappie for tunage. At least it was for me. Much angst ahead in this chapter, but the action is coming. _

_E - Níl gach uile fhánaí caillte. It's been said before, but it bears repeating._

_Kelly – Thanks for anchoring me._

_www_

_Who can hope to be safe? Guard himself as he may, every moment's an ambush. - Horace_

Into the Fire – Chapter 5

"Holy shit," Sam breathed, shutting off the Impala and hopping out. He hurried around the car to help Dean, knowing his brother would need to get there, need to see if Brenna was okay. Before he could get around to the other side, Dean had opened the door and was standing next to the car.

"Brenna!" Dean called. Sam's heart clenched at the weakness in Dean's voice.

Brenna emerged from the house, her eyes red, her face impassive. Glancing quickly at Dean, Sam closed the short distance between the house and the car in a couple swift strides, pausing at the base of the stairs.

"You okay?" he asked her.

Brenna nodded mutely. She had yet to look at either of them. She sat down heavily on the top step just as Sam reached her.

"They were here," Brenna said in a dull voice. "They were here when I got back."

"Did they hurt you?" Sam asked, reaching out a hand to rest on her shoulder.

She shook her head. "I have twenty-four hours," she said, her tone unchanged as she lifted her eyes from the ground to look at Sam.

"Or what?" he asked, but he already knew. Dean had said it back on the highway. They had come for her.

"Or they t-take everything. Declan's debt is mine," she said. She shifted her eyes to look past him toward Dean, and Sam saw a strange expression in her eyes… as though she were reaching out to his brother without actually moving.

"Dean?" she said, suddenly. Sam saw her face pull together in immediate concern and he turned quickly back to where he'd left Dean standing next to the car.

In the wan light of the day, the bruises on Dean's cheek and neck were amplified by the pale skin beneath. He was braced, his legs slightly bowed, his right hand out as if searching for something, someone to support him. His eyes were wide and glassy, and he was staring right through Sam.

Sam stepped forward – he was only a few strides away -- but Dean's knees buckled and he sank to the ground before Sam could catch him.

"Dean." Sam crouched next to him, slid his left arm under Dean's shoulders and carefully rolled him to his back off of his wounded right side. Dean's head dropped back slightly in the crook of Sam's arm. "Hey… hey, Dean," he whispered, feeling his breath hitch, hearing his voice catch, not caring.

Dean's eyes were open slightly, but he wasn't really looking at Sam. He wasn't really looking at anything. Sam's heart caught as he remembered seeing this look on Dean's face once before. In the rear-view mirror of the Impala. Just before their lives had been irrevocably shattered. Sam somehow knew that whatever Dean was looking at was so far inside of his brother that Sam would probably never see it. His pupils were so large there was barely a hint of green around the edge.

Sam pressed his lips together, cursing himself for listening to Dean and leaving the hospital. Even with the cops there, at least Dean would have gotten help. Would have been cared for. Now…

"Dean?" Sam whispered again.

The sound of his brother's name had become a life-line to Sam. He said it for reassurance. He said it in exasperation. He said it in anger. He said it in amusement. He said it in relief. And now… now he said it in fear. He carefully cupped the side of Dean's face, his palm at Dean's chin, and turned Dean's face toward him.

He was afraid for Dean, afraid for what his brother was willing to do for him, afraid of the path he was on, afraid where that path was leading Dean. He felt a now-familiar tug of desperation. He should leave Dean to keep him safe, but he had realized long ago that even when Dean was being an ass, he needed the solace his brother's presence provided. He simply needed his brother.

"Dean, I need you to look at me," Sam whispered, ignoring Brenna's presence nearby, ignoring the fact that they were huddled in the dirt just outside of the Impala, ignoring the deep throb in his shoulder, ignoring everything but Dean.

Dean blinked once, but Sam couldn't tell if he saw him.

"I need you to look at me, okay," he repeated.

Dean swallowed and his eyes rolled once, closing then opening forcefully as if he were trying to come back from something. He tensed in Sam's arms, struggling to move, then gasped, his eyes clenching tight.

"God, Dean –" Brenna started, kneeling on the other side of Dean. Sam saw her lift her hand to touch Dean in an automatic gesture of care.

"Brenna, no, wait, don't!" Sam cried, reaching out to stop her. He was too late.

As her hand closed on Dean's shoulder, she gasped, her eyes shutting tight, her body going rigid. Dean arched his neck, his back bowing slightly, his features fisting in a grimace of pain. Sam stared at them in shock for a brief moment.

Then Dean cried out. Sam jerked in reaction to that sound. It was a cry of pain, of defiance… it was a plea as much as a rebellion. Brenna opened her mouth slightly and lowered her head. Sam reached out to push her away when her eyes suddenly snapped open and he froze. She stared at him with her druid eyes and he suddenly found that he couldn't move. It was as if an invisible barrier kept him away from Dean, from Brenna. The volume of Dean's cry increased, a wordless sound that shook Sam's heart.

Brenna continued to stare at Sam and he narrowed his eyes at her, tensing his body against whatever force held him back, held him away from Dean. He pushed, leaned forward against the barrier she'd somehow managed to throw up and keep him away, curving his shoulders, resisting, reaching…

He was finally able to move his left hand from behind Dean and curled his fingers around Dean's wrist. Dean immediately went silent. His neck was still arched, his back slightly bowed, his eyes closed tight, but when Sam's fingers had grabbed his wrist, Dean's mouth had closed and Sam could hear him breathing harshly through his nose.

With a supreme effort, Sam reached out with his right hand, the wound in his shoulder protesting, aching, pulling, and he was able to touch Brenna. As soon as he felt her arm beneath his fingers, the force holding him away disappeared and he shoved her roughly away from Dean so that she ended sprawled in the dirt on her side.

A bird chirped. Wind rustled the branches above them. Sam panted, looking at Brenna. Brenna panted, looking at Dean.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded breathlessly.

Brenna shook her head and swallowed. Pushing herself slowly to a sitting position, not bothering to brush the dirt from her arms, Brenna continued to stare at Dean.

"What did you do to him?" Sam asked.

He still held on to Dean's wrist with his left hand. He wanted to pull Dean close, pull his brother away from Brenna, but he suddenly lacked the strength. He could do no more than sit and breathe and feel Dean tremble beneath his hand.

"I-I don't know…" Brenna gasped, licking her lips. "I didn't mean –"

"You _know_ what happens when you touch him and he can't –"

"Sam, no," she shook her head, her eyes still wide, still fixed on Dean. "No, it wasn't that…"

Sam looked down at his brother. Dean's head had lolled slightly sideways, his breathing was still rapid, his eyes half cast and staring into the middle distance. As Sam watched, a thin trail of blood seeped from his nose.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam cursed.

He reached out with his thumb and wiped the blood away from Dean's top lip. Dean blinked once, rolled his eyes, closing them with a slight tremble, then forcing them open. Sam watched the green in his brother's eyes slowly return. He watched the pupils shrink, watched Dean struggle to focus. The whites of his eyes were blood-shot and raw looking, causing the color of his irises to stand out like neon.

"Dean, hey, c'mon," Sam pleaded. "Come on back to me."

And then Sam watched Dean see him.

"Dean… are you there? Are you… are you with me?"

Dean blinked again, then coughed weakly, drawing his hand up to his side. He caught his breath, then reached up to his lips, rubbing at the wetness there and looked at his fingers. His eyes widened and he looked back at Sam.

"What the hell?"

Sam smiled, relief so great he felt light headed. This vulnerable version of Dean that he had been seeing glimpses of scared Sam. He needed his brother to be strong, to be solid, to barrel through life ahead of Sam, clearing a path. He helped his brother shift into a semi-sitting position. Dean made it as far as resting the top half of his body against Sam's chest. He held his side and continued to wipe the blood away from his nose and lips.

"Seriously, Dude," he said to Sam, his voice low. "What the hell?"

"Something… happened when Brenna –" Sam didn't finish as Dean's head snapped up and he looked away from Sam to Brenna sitting in the dirt just beyond them.

Sam expected Dean to ream her as he'd done before. He was floored when Dean's next words were, "You okay?"

Sam lifted his eyes from Dean's profile to watch Brenna slowly nod, her eyes on Dean.

"How –" Dean started then winced, trying to straighten against an obvious pain in his side.

"You… you were trying to block me and show me something at the same time," Brenna said, her voice rough. She cleared her throat. "I couldn't get out… I'm so sorry, Dean."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You're _sorry_?"

Brenna looked over at Sam. "I didn't know –"

"Then you shouldn't have touched him," Sam snapped.

"Sammy," Dean's voice was low.

"I was trying to help!" Brenna bit the words off, her eyes angry and focused on Sam.

Sam clenched his jaw. "I told you to wait – I said to _wait_."

"Well, I didn't hear you."

"Then maybe you should listen a little harder!"

"Sam—" Dean tried again.

"You are unbelievable," Brenna shook her head. "You have just as much power to see what you need to – the power to _help_ him and you run from it."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," Sam growled, shifting his eyes from Brenna to the battered house.

"Oh really? Then how did you push me away?"

"What do you mean _how_? I just did."

"With your _mind_, Sam – you pushed me away with your mind."

"I had to do something -- you were killing him!"

"Sam!" Dean said.

"I was not," Brenna's voice shook. Her eyes darted from Sam to Dean and back. "I was stuck – he was… it was like… a lock on a window… like I wanted to see but he…"

"He _didn't_ want you to see, don't you get it!" Sam argued. "He fought you hard enough he bled from it." His irritation with Brenna blossomed into an almost white-hot rage. He leaned toward her, over Dean. "You push and you push and you keep looking and keep asking and you break him down and then when you get where you think you want to go you just _leave_ him to–"

"SAM!" Dean's voice was harsh, and the gasp of pain that followed the bark of his name snapped Sam back to his senses. "Enough, okay? Let it go."

Sam leaned back and looked down at Dean. "Dean—"

"Sammy," Dean sighed, holding his side and blinking at Sam. "It's okay. She's right…" Dean swallowed and closed his eyes, dropping his head back against Sam's chest. "She's right."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "What?" He ducked his head to try to peer at Dean's face. "What do you mean, Dean?"

Dean shook his head, straightening slowly, trying to sit up. His eyes remained closed, and his lips thinned to a line of pain across his face. It suddenly occurred to Sam that they were sitting in the dirt outside of the ransacked house. He looked up at Brenna who had her eyes on Dean, an expression of heartbreaking sorrow on her face.

"Did they tear up the inside of the house, too?" Sam asked softly.

Brenna nodded, not looking away from Dean.

"Is that bed still there?"

Brenna swallowed. "They didn't go into the side room," she said. "I think they thought it was a closet." She shrugged. "Looks like a closet."

Sam looked back down at Dean who had given in to gravity and was slumped over, cradling his ribs, his face pale, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow.

"C'mon, man," Sam said, curving his left arm around Dean's back. "Let's get you inside."

A line appeared between Dean's eyebrows as he worked to fold his legs under him and leverage himself up. Sam offered him as much balance as he could with one arm. Dean clenched his teeth against a groan of pain and Sam felt him tremble beneath his hands. Once on their feet, Dean swayed. Sam held him firmly, trying not to grip any of the bruised areas, but finding it difficult.

"That wraith sure did a number on you," he muttered.

"I think I might've pissed it off," Dean mumbled, his eyes still closed, as Sam turned him toward the stairs.

"Yeah?"

"It's a shame," the sentence was punctuated by a shallow gasp of pain, "I was working the Winchester," he stumbled slightly and Sam tightened his grip, "charm… speaking a foreign language…" he gasped, "using all my best lines…"

"Oh, you were totally in," Sam teased as he guided Dean up the stairs to the porch. "Little conversation by the fire…"

Dean let out a weak chuckle. "Yeah, I even had a wine glass…"

Sam nodded with a small grin as he watched Dean move carefully through the doorway and into the kitchen area. The house was a mess. Chairs broken and scattered, table collapsed in on itself, cabinet doors pulled off and dishes scattered and smashed along the counter and the floor. Sam looked to his left and saw that the sitting area had suffered just as much.

He was about to say something to Brenna when Dean suddenly sagged against him. Sam shifted and as quickly as he could hooked Dean's arm over his shoulder, crouching so that his brother wouldn't have to stretch.

"I got you man," he said.

"Sammy…" Dean called weakly.

"I'm here," Sam said.

"Damn, this hurts," Dean mumbled.

"I know, Dean," Sam answered.

"How much did I have to drink?"

"Huh?"

"Room's spinnin' like a sonuvabitch," Dean's voice was fainter, his words slurring together.

Sam felt Dean's weight increase against him and his heart picked up speed. He looked up at Brenna standing next to the door of the side room.

"C'mon, Sam," she motioned. "It's okay. Everything's here."

Sam supported Dean's almost dead-weight as they moved through the door, Dean trying to help, his shoes dragging on the floorboards with each step. Sam hissed slightly as he lowered Dean to the bed, his shoulder protesting the movement. Dean sat heavily on the bed, his eyes bare slits of green. As soon as Sam straightened, Dean began to tip forward.

"Whoa," Sam stepped closer, grasped Dean's shoulders and eased him back onto the bed.

"Sam?" Dean's face was pulled in a tight grimace of pain.

"I'm here, Dean."

Dean blinked slowly, the time his eyes were open decreasing in length. Sam could see that Dean's eyes were unfocused, glassy. He turned his head on the pillow toward Sam's voice, his left hand resting across his chest, instinctively protecting his wounded ribs.

"Don't… listen to her, Sam," he mumbled, his eyes closing.

"To who, Dean?"

"There's always a choice," Dean's voice was getting fainter and Sam had to lean forward to catch the next part. "Always a choice…"

"A choice about what?" Sam whispered.

"Death," Dean said, then seemed to sag a bit in the bed, finally giving in to oblivion.

Sam blinked, straightening slowly to look at his brother. Dean looked suddenly very young. His dark lashes covered the purple shadows of exhaustion under his eyes, and an almost peaceful expression gave him an appearance of innocence that Sam knew he'd lost over twenty years ago. Dean sighed slightly and his brows pulled together in a pained expression that shattered the illusion of peace Sam had seen.

Sam needed Dean to act as his protector and clear a path for him in life… but what about Dean? Who protected him? Who helped pave his way? Sam sank slowly to the floor bedside the bed, then sat next to Dean's head with his back to the wall. Pulling his knees up he crossed his arms over them and dropped his head forward. John had been Dean's protection. Sam blamed the fortress Dean built inside of him on the transparency of the wall John provided for his oldest son.

But then even that had been destroyed. Sam shifted his head over, resting his cheek on his arm, and looked at his brother's battered profile. Sam missed John every day. He had a lot of regret when it came to his relationship with his father. He bit his lip, trying to quiet the sudden screaming of his heart. But Dean… Dean was his ground. His balance.

Brenna sat carefully on the edge of the bed, across from Sam. She had a white cloth in her hand and reached out to wipe the trail of dried blood from Dean's upper lip.

"Wait," Sam said, reaching out.

"It's okay, Sam," she whispered soothingly. "I won't let that happen again."

She trailed the cloth down Dean's face slowly. Sam shifted his eyes from Brenna's face to her hand, watching as she almost caressed Dean's face with the cloth. Dean lay still, his face lax, eyes closed. Even the line of pain between his brows had eased away.

"How come you can control it now?" Sam asked.

Brenna shrugged. "I guess I just… close off."

Sam licked his lips and nodded. He had felt that after every vision – raw, open, a conduit for images of people suffering, people dying. He wanted to hide, to retreat from everyone and everything until he could open his eyes and not be confronted by the images, until his head no longer threatened to roll from his shoulders in an attempt to escape from the pain.

Sam sat still, spent from pain and emotions, allowing Brenna to clean blood and remnants of soot from Dean's face.

"How did that happen, Brenna," he asked her, nodding toward Dean's face.

"I think you were right," she said softly, canting her head to the side and looking at Sam. "I think because he was fighting so hard, but… he wasn't fighting me this time."

"What do you mean? He looked like—"

"He was fighting himself," Brenna shifted her eyes over to Dean, holding very still. "There's something just under the surface… something that he knows, but doesn't… I don't know, understand, I guess."

Sam chewed on the inside of his lip, thinking. The memories that Dean had been experiencing since the blow to his head with the whiskey bottle… there was something there, Sam was sure of it. Brenna stood and carefully lifted the edge of Dean's black T-shirt to look at the bruising on the smooth plane of his belly. She shook her head.

"Why didn't Declan have this bruising?" she asked.

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Dean was banishing the wraith… It must have fought him."

"I'll say," she whispered. "Help me, Sam."

She turned away and pulled something out of the metal first aid kit sitting on the floor next to her. When she turned back, she had scissors in her hand.

"What are you going to do?" Sam shifted forward onto his knees.

"Cut away his clothes so that we can treat the bruises."

"He's not gonna like that," Sam said, even as he held Dean's T-shirt for her to cut it away from Dean's chest and arms.

"He'll deal," Brenna retorted.

They filleted the T-shirt, and Sam carefully eased it out from under Dean, wincing in sympathy as Dean groaned a bit in his sleep in protest of his body's movement. He pulled Dean's boots off, and helped Brenna remove his jeans, not missing the way Brenna averted her eyes from his as they did so. When Dean lay only in his boxers and bandaged ribs, the full effect of the wraith's vengeance hit Sam like a punch to the gut.

"Christ, Dean," he breathed.

The bruises ranged from harsh red slashes, to deep purple along his legs, arms, and torso. Dean shifted slightly, his brow pulling together. Sam saw him shiver once, and reached down to pull the blanket up to his brother's waist, offering Dean some warmth and Sam an escape from the visual of Dean's suffering.

Brenna left the room for a moment and Sam heard her feet crunch on broken dishes. He kept his eyes on his brother as she clattered through the broken furniture and cabinets to get whatever it was she needed. Dean's eyes flicked under his closed lids, and Sam couldn't help but wonder what he was seeing.

He heard something slam, a muffled curse, then he heard static from the kitchen radio and music filtered into the small room. Surprised that her radio still worked in all of the destruction, he shook his head, thinking back to Brenna saying she heard too much when it was quiet. After the latest events, he could easily believe there was something screaming inside of her that she had to drown out.

"Here," Brenna said, coming back into the room. "Hold this."

She thrust a metal bowl into his hands and opened the cap on the bottle of witch hazel. Pouring that in, she then mixed in a couple of pinches of powder from two small burlap bags she held under one arm, and then stirred it counter clockwise with her index finger. Motioning with her head, she directed Sam to sit on one side of Dean and she sat on the other.

"We're gonna soak these rags and lay them on him," she said, handing Sam several cloths like the one she'd used to clean up the blood. "It won't heal his ribs, or really help with the concussion, but it will ease the pain of the bruises, and should help with his fever."

"Fever?" Sam looked up in surprise. He reached forward and gently laid his hand across Dean's forehead. Dean's skin was warm to the touch. _How did I miss that?_

"Our bodies can only take so much abuse, Sam," Brenna said, soaking the first rag and easing the blankets back to lay it on Dean's leg. "It's just a reaction to the trauma." Sam watched her for a moment, idly wondering how they were going to do the same for the bruises on Dean's back.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He felt his body begin to surrender to exhaustion as he held his eyes closed. The music from the shattered kitchen eased in and around him.

"_But you always find a way to keep me right here waiting. You always find the words to say to keep me right here waiting. And if you chose to walk away I'd still be right here waiting. Searching for the things to say to keep you right here waiting…"_

Sam opened his eyes, looking at Dean. He began to mimic Brenna with the rags, starting with Dean's torso, careful of the wrapped ribs. It seemed strange to him to be this close to Dean, almost invasive.

He'd certainly taken care of Dean's wounds before. He'd helped John stitch Dean up after a werewolf tore into Dean's leg when Sam was fourteen. He'd carried Dean up the rickety basement stairs from the darkness of the basement when he'd been electrocuted killing the Rawhead. He'd held Dean's hand when the banshee's curse stopped his heart and as Brenna brought him back. And he'd carried him, bleeding from the chest, to the Impala after the demon had left their father back in the cabin.

"_I've made a commitment. I'm willing to bleed for you. I needed fulfillment. I found what I need in you…"_

But as Sam laid another rag soaked in the witch hazel solution across Dean's upper chest, he thought that this was almost too close, too real. The wraith pulled the soul, forcefully, painfully from the body. Sam remembered the feeling of the shtriga's attack. It had left him weak and shaken. Not broken and bruised.

"What if he didn't finish it first," he muttered softly.

"What?" Brenna was working her way up Dean's other leg, carefully keeping the blankets tented over him so that he didn't get chilled.

"Dean said he finished the wraith before it finished him, but… look at him," Sam said, laying one of the smaller rags across Dean's neck. "What if it… got a piece of him?" He looked over at Brenna's profile and saw her jaw muscle jump.

"Then you'll just have to help him figure out how to get it back, Sam."

"_You always find the words to say to keep me right here waiting. And if I chose to walk away would you be right here waiting. Searching for the things to say to keep me right here waiting…"_

Sam swallowed. "When the semi hit us," he suddenly found himself saying, his hands quiet in his lap, his eyes on Dean's still features, "I was in the middle of trying to tell my Dad why I didn't shoot him."

He didn't look away from Dean, but could see Brenna out of the corner of his eyes. She stopped moving, a rag in her hand, poised over Dean's arm.

"It happened… so fast. I looked at Dean in the rear view mirror, and he was… barely there. And I looked at my Dad and he was so angry. And then I closed my eyes and when I opened them again, everything hurt and there was a man ripping the door off of the hinges and the colt was in my hand and all I could think was that Dean didn't hesitate," the words were tumbling out of him, tripping over themselves to reach the surface, to be exposed. "That guy in the alley was on top of me and I couldn't see and I couldn't hear and I knew he was going to kill me and Dean didn't hesitate. He used a bullet. He killed a man to save my life. He pulled me up and got Dad and got us out of there."

Sam felt his chest tighten as he stared harder at Dean. He wasn't really even aware that he was talking to Brenna, he was just talking.

"I don't know what made the demon leave that trucker, but I was gonna kill it. I was gonna kill it to save Dean. And you know," he blinked, looking down, "if I had there wouldn't have been a bullet left… and Dad wouldn't have been able to make that deal." _And Dean could have died… and I would be lost…_

"You don't know that, Sam," Brenna whispered.

"I know," he shrugged, his eyes down, "but I think about that. I think about that damn colt a lot. Almost as much as I think about Dad. The only reason I didn't shoot Dad in the cabin was because Dean was begging me not to." He lifted his eyes and looked at Brenna. "For a moment there, I really would have done it."

She simply looked back at him, not denying, not agreeing. She just let him talk.

"The trucker called 911 and I closed my eyes again and when I opened them someone was pulling me out of the car and they were… they were cutting Dean out. The car had almost crumpled around him, and they took him away, and the next time I saw him…"

Sam felt the wetness on his cheeks before he realized he was crying. He wiped the tears away with the back of his left hand. He didn't even care that Brenna was watching him. He hurt. He ached. And he was tired.

"He's all I got," Sam whispered. He felt Brenna's small hand on his forearm, resting carefully, comforting. "And I can't lose him."

"You're not gonna lose him, Sam," she said her voice low, soft.

"Sometimes I wonder if I already have," he confessed.

Brenna looked down, then squeezed his arm. "Sam," she said. He turned his eyes to her. "When I see Dean, I mean, when I, y'know, look into him, I am looking for _him_ but all I see is you."

Sam pulled his eyebrows together.

"And it's not just a mission to save you, or protect you. It's_ you_." She released Sam's arm and looked at Dean. "He confuses the hell out of me, and I know he's hiding something from himself, but one thing is clear. You are the most important thing in his life."

Sam swallowed. "That's what worries me," he said.

Dean's brows pulled together and he turned his head again, wincing. He blinked his eyes open, but Sam could see he wasn't truly awake. Brenna was in his line of sight.

"I was gonna go with her," Dean muttered.

Sam draw back, surprised. It was exactly what Dean had said to the doctor in the hospital. Dean closed his eyes, his head rolling slightly on the pillow toward Sam. Sam rested his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Who were you going to go with, Dean?"

Dean didn't open his eyes. "Tessa."

Sam looked up at Brenna, surprised. She met his eyes, and shrugged.

"Who's Tessa, Dean?"

Dean pulled his eyebrows together, then opened his eyes again slowly, looking at Sam.

"Sam?"

"Hey, man, you with me?"

Dean blinked again, looking down at his chest. "What did I miss?"

Sam grinned. "It will help the bruises," he said.

"Dressing me up like a mummy?" Dean's voice was rough, like it hadn't been used in days. Sam saw that his eyes seemed clearer. He shifted in the bed and Sam moved to push an extra pillow behind him, sitting him up higher in the bed.

"It's a druid thing," Sam shrugged. "Dean?"

"Mm?"

"Who is Tessa?"

Dean's eyes opened wider and he blinked a couple of times at Sam. "What the hell you talkin' about?"

"You said that you were going to go with Tessa," Sam said, leaned forward, his hand pressing down on Dean's shoulder.

Dean lifted an eyebrow, giving Sam a look. "You okay, Sam?" he asked.

"He's right, Dean," Brenna said. "You said that – right before you woke up."

Sam noticed that Dean didn't look over at her when she spoke. He looked back down at the rags and bandages on his chest. A line appeared between his brows and his face was tight.

"Dean?" Sam shook his shoulder slightly.

"What?" Dean's voice was irritated.

Sam knew he was close to crossing the line, to pushing Dean back inside of himself, but it was starting to add up for him. "Listen, remember in Dad's journal, how it says reapers take on different forms?"

Dean raised his eyes, the green of his irises practically glowing out at Sam. "Yeah, so?"

"Dude… what if," Sam looked down and swallowed. "What if Tessa was a reaper?"

Dean's eyes dropped and Sam watched them dart furiously, working to remember, working to figure it out, working to understand.

"Dean," Sam ducked his head, trying to catch Dean's eyes. "You were with me in the hospital."

Dean looked up at Sam, his eyes cloudy, unfocused. "With you?"

"I, uh… I _felt_ you somehow," Sam shrugged. "I don't know if it's my psychic thing or what, but… Dude, you talked to me. On the Ouija board."

Dean blinked at him, but Sam could tell that he wasn't seeing him. His eyes were focused inward.

"Dean."

Dean's eyes shifted away, darting again quickly in thought. "She had yellow eyes," he whispered. He looked back at Sam. "She had yellow eyes, Sam."

Sam tilted his head to the side, suddenly acutely aware of Brenna sitting so very still on the other side of Dean, aware that she'd seen what had happened to them through his eyes, aware that she knew Dean blamed himself for John's sacrifice. _Dad's dead because of me… what could you possibly say to make that all right…_

Sam swallowed. "Like the demon, you mean. Like Dad."

Dean nodded, his lips twitching, the muscle in his jaw jumping. He blinked once at Sam, and then as though someone had stuck a tap in him, Sam watched as Dean's heart drained from his eyes leaving them empty, dead. Fisting his hands, Dean pushed himself higher in the bed, then began pulling the rags from his arms and chest.

"What are you doing?"

"Gotta take a leak," Dean mumbled. "You mind?"

"Dean, hey," Sam snapped at him. "You can't—"

"Here," Brenna interrupted Sam.

She began reaching for the rags on Dean's chest, then helped him remove them from his legs. Dean didn't say a word to her, and they didn't once look at each other. Sam sat silently and watched, brooding. It was the standard Dean Winchester way of dealing. Shove it down, push it behind the wall, ignore that it was there, that he was scared, that he was confused. Just move move move. Motion is the key to survival. His brother was like a shark.

When the rags were removed, Brenna stepped back and with gentle hands, helped Dean turn slowly in the bed. Sam stood to allow his brother room to hang his legs over the bed. Sam noticed the fine sheen of sweat covering Dean's face as a result of that effort. If Dean noticed that he was clad only in his boxers, he didn't seem to care. Dean wrapped an arm around his ribs, bracing himself on the edge of the bed with the other arm and looked up at Sam through narrowed eyes.

"When I get back," Dean said through clenched teeth, "we gotta go get that… wine glass."

"What?!" Sam and Brenna exclaimed at the same time.

"No way, man. You're not going anywhere," Sam snapped.

"You found the Ardagh?" Brenna cried.

"Dean, seriously, you need to rest," Sam continued.

"Where is it? Why didn't you tell me?" Brenna stood up from the bed.

"Shut up, both of you," Dean yelled, then winced, trying to straighten his right side. His breath hitched and he closed his eyes.

"Dean—" Sam stepped forward.

"Sam, I swear to God—"

"Just let me help you," Sam interrupted.

There was a chill in the room, so Sam turned quickly from Dean and grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the duffel on the floor at the foot of the bed, and carefully helped his brother ease into them. Gripping Dean under the arm with his left hand, he helped him to his feet. Dean gritted his teeth and growled as he stood. He was sweating and his breath was coming in short pants, but he was standing.

"You look like crap," Sam said, shaking his head.

Dean cracked his eyes open and peered at his brother. "Just point me in the right direction."

"I'll help you," Sam said. He wasn't about to let go of Dean and watch him crumble in front of his eyes a third time.

"The Ardagh," Brenna said, "where—"

"In a minute!" the brothers snapped at her in unison. As Sam helped Dean to the doorway, he looked over his shoulder at Brenna. She sat heavily on the bed, her hands fisted in her lap, her face pale, her eyes hot. Sam sympathized, but at the moment, his concern was for Dean.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, looking out at the destroyed house.

Sam turned back and realized that there was no easy way to maneuver through the debris, even just in the short distance between the small room and the restroom. A bird flew in through the opened doorway, through the house, and out of one of the shattered windows in the back of the house. He shook his head.

"Hang on a minute, Dean," he said, propping Dean up in the doorway. He felt Dean tremble a bit and he looked at him quickly.

"Dude, this sucks out loud," Dean muttered, his face pale. He wrapped his arm around his bandaged ribs, the grey sweat pants sitting low on his hips.

Sam shoved the broken chairs and pieces of dishes and glass away from the wall so that there was a path clear from where Dean stood to the restroom. He'd barely finished when he looked up and saw Dean moving toward him, one hand on the wall. Sam shook his head, reaching out a hand.

"I got it," Dean grumbled, moving past Sam and into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and Sam stood on the other side, staring at the door.

"Why didn't you tell me, Sam?"

Sam looked over to see Brenna standing in the doorway. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her jaw was set. The music was louder outside of the small room.

"_Tell me, is it more of the same and where can I find it? Tell me, is she fighting for air and where does she come from?"_

"I forgot," Sam told her honestly.

"You forgot," her voice was brittle, her eyes switching from hot to ice-cold. "Twenty-four hours, Sam."

"I know," he said, turning back to the door and resting the flat of his hand on it. "I know."

"Tell me where it is," she demanded.

_No way in hell_, he thought. She was enough like his brother that she would go searching for the Ardagh by herself and he knew Dean wouldn't be able to handle Brenna getting herself hurt. He sighed. He didn't think _he'd _be able to handle it. He heard water running in the bathroom. He closed his eyes. His shoulder throbbed, his head pounded, and for one brief moment, it felt like his life was trying to swallow him whole.

"Sam," Dean's voice was faint through the door. Sam tried the handle. It was unlocked. He eased the door open.

"Tell me where it is, Sam," Brenna said again. He paused with the door part-way open and spared her a silent glance before he opened the door and stepped in.

Dean was braced in front of the sink, his arms on either side of the white porcelain, his head bowed, his eyes closed. He was visibly shaking. Sam didn't say a word. He stepped up next to him and slid his left arm across Dean's bare back, helping his brother lift an arm across his shoulders. Turning carefully, he eased Dean out of the bathroom, down the small area free of debris, and past Brenna into the small bedroom.

Dean held his jaw tight and he puffed harsh bursts of air through his nose. They reached the bed and Sam eased him down. Biting back a groan, Dean eased carefully to his back on the bed.

"Still want to go after the Ardagh?" Sam asked softly.

"Yes," Dean bit out.

Sam shook his head.

"Just gimme a minute," Dean panted.

Sam reached over to the metal first aid kit and grabbed the aspirin bottle. He shook four out into his hand and touched Dean on the shoulder, handing them to him. Before he could reach for the bottle of water sitting next to the bed, Dean had dry-swallowed the painkillers and was staring intently at the ceiling. Sam saw his lips moving in beat with the song from the radio, and tilted his head slightly, listening.

"_I'm so afraid of the gift you give me. I don't belong here and I'm not well. I'm so ashamed of the lie I'm living. Right on the wrong side of it all…"_

Sam suddenly realized Dean was counting. He saw him mouth _six seven eight, _then the verse changed and Dean began again at one. Sam sat down on the side of the bed, his back to Dean, and leaned his arms forward on his knees. He could see Brenna standing in the doorway, arms still crossed, face impassive. He felt the bed tremble as Dean's body betrayed him. Sam dropped his head, his voice directed toward the ground.

"_Hold me now I need to feel complete, like I matter to the one I need…"_

"Go to sleep, Dean."

"Can't sleep."

"Yes, you can."

"It'll get away from me," Dean said through clenched teeth.

Sam turned slightly to look at Dean over his shoulder. Dean was still staring at the ceiling, his eyes large and intent, his jaw tight.

"What do you mean?"

"Sam…" he paused and closed his eyes briefly. "I'm barely hanging on, man." He opened his eyes and looked at Sam. Sam felt his heart stop at the look in Dean's eyes. "I can't let go."

"Just sleep, man," Sam said. "It will all be here when you wake up."

"Will you?"

Sam's lips twitched and he pulled his brows together. He looked down, pulled in a breath. There was so much he wanted to say to Dean in that moment. So much he wanted his brother to know. That he was scared about his future, his destiny, that he was angry at John for not telling him the truth, that he was sorry John was gone but grateful every day that Dean was here, that he needed Dean to be there no matter what… that he needed Dean to save him.

But when he looked back up at Dean and met his brother's wounded gaze, he knew that Dean really only needed to hear one thing.

"Yeah, Dean. I'll be here."

As though the words were permission, Dean's eyes drooped, then closed. Sam watched as his body visibly relaxed. He pushed himself to his feet, drew the blankets up to Dean's shoulders and stepped away from the bed. He hoped this lasted – he couldn't remember the last time Dean had slept more than an hour or two.

"Where is it, Sam," Brenna whispered.

"Jesus Christ, Brenna," Sam whispered back fiercely. His patience was thin, his temper simmering just below the surface. "I thought you cared about him, for God's sake."

Brenna's eyes flashed hurt once, then went cold again. "I do care about him, Sam. More than he'll ever know."

"Then give me a damn minute, okay?"

Brenna stepped forward, into the room, right up to Sam. She barely reached his shoulders, but her presence was powerful. Sam resisted the urge to take a step back.

"I have less than twenty-four hours," she whispered, her eyes literally snapping with barely suppressed anger. "These guys do _not_ mess around, Sam. They will come here. They will burn this place to the ground and they will not care who gets caught in it."

Sam took a breath and grabbed her upper arm, turning her and marching her out of the room. Their feet crunched on the broken pieces of plates and glasses. He didn't stop until they were in the center of the ruined kitchen, out of earshot if they were quiet.

"We won't let that happen," he promised.

"Sam, you can't stop it with rock salt," she retorted. Pulling her arm roughly from his grasp, she shoved her hands into her hair, pushing it behind her ears. She turned away from him and leaned against the sink. "When they killed my parents," she said, her voice soft, "they did it to make a point. Declan told me. They were… brutal." She turned from the sink and looked directly at him. "I can't let that happen to him – to either of you."

Sam nodded, his jaw tight. "It won't, Brenna. But you have to wait for us."

"Dean's not going to be in any shape to fight them off," she protested, gesturing to the bedroom door.

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth. "I don't think that's gonna matter," he muttered. Running a hand through his longish hair, he shifted his eyes to the radio behind her.

"_There's a shadow just behind me, shrouding every breath I take, making every promise empty, pointing every finger at me…"_

"Brenna, listen," he said to her taut back. "Just give me a few hours. Let Dean sleep… and we'll figure out something. I promise." The words felt heavy in his mouth, and pulled at his heart.

She turned from the sink to face him. "You promise?"

Sam nodded, worrying his lip with his teeth. "We'll figure it out."

She leveled her eyes at him. "You know they have plans for the Ardagh, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"They're planning something. We give it to them, people die."

"We won't let that happen, Brenna," Sam said, his voice low.

He was suddenly cold. It was hard to think. He rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes briefly. He just needed a break… She pushed past him silently and he watched as she approached the broken front door.

"What are you doing?"

She tossed him a look. "Putting this back up."

Sam shook his head as he watched her bend at the knee to try to leverage the large wooden piece up. "You are just as bad as Dean," he muttered, going over to her and grabbing the door with his left hand.

Once it was in the air, he used his right to balance and they maneuvered the door to a semi-straight covering of the opening. Brenna balanced it as Sam wedged a couple pieces of broken chair to keep it in place.

"What did you mean," he said, jimmying the wood piece into place, "when you said I had the power to help Dean?"

He saw her look quickly at him out of the corner of his eyes.

"Your visions, Sam," she said.

"I can't control them, though," he argued.

She lifted a shoulder. "So you learn," she said.

He stepped away from the door, looking at her. "Easy as that," he said sarcastically, brushing his hands off on his jeans.

"I never said it would be easy," she argued, cautiously stepping away from the door. "I can't really control that glass breaking thing… but I learn to control the connection I have to people, control what I see and when."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Except with Dean."

She frowned. "Yeah," she said. "Except with Dean."

Sam started to walk away from her to the bedroom. "Maybe you're too close to him," he tossed back over his shoulder, almost holding his breath as he waited for her answer. When she was silent, he paused and looked at her. She was standing where he left her, hands on hips, eyes cast down. "Maybe you need to… I don't know… back away a bit," Sam suggested with forced casualness.

She didn't lift her head. "If that's what you want, Sam."

"What_ I _want?"

She bit her bottom lip. Lifted her head and rested her eyes on him for a moment. Then without another word, she worked her way through the debris of the house and headed to the stairs. He watched her go, thinking about her last comment. He heard a low mutter followed by a groan coming from the small room and it pulled his attention away from Brenna. Hurrying into the room, he saw Dean twisting slightly in the blankets on the bed, a sheen of sweat on his face, a line between his brows.

"Easy," Sam murmured, crouching low beside the bed. He grabbed one of the discarded rags that Brenna had draped over the basin and slowly wiped down Dean's sweaty face. "Easy, Dean. It's just a dream."

Dean frowned in his sleep, twisted again, and fisted the blankets in his hands. _You have the power…to help him…and you run from it…_ Could he really help Dean? He knelt next to the bed, setting the rag down on the floor beside him, and closed his eyes.

"If you wake up," he whispered, "don't make fun of me for this, okay?"

He reached out his left hand and placed his fingers on Dean's cheek and temple. He put his right hand on Dean's shoulder. He held very still, concentrating on Dean, on his breathing, on easing his brother's pain. After about five minutes, his knees began to ache and his back was stiff and the only thing he felt from Dean was a steady tremble of muscle beneath his right hand. He sighed, rocking back on his haunches.

"Well," he said softly. "It was worth a shot, I guess."

Dean's dream seemed to have given him some peace for the moment. Sam crab-crawled back across the narrow space and leveraged himself up on the edge of the adjacent bed, keeping his eyes on Dean. Looking over his shoulder at the engine parts and shop rags, he sighed. If he could just close his eyes for a minute… he stood and carefully emptied the bed, putting the items into the opened trunk at the foot of the bed. He stretched out on his back, cradling his right arm, his shoulder a dull, throbbing reminder that he wasn't any more of a match for a wraith than Dean. He closed his eyes and listened to the familiar rhythmic sound of his brother breathing.

A low murmur of a woman's voice teased the edge of his consciousness. Sam felt himself smile at the sound, once so familiar and comforting. It took another level of wakefulness before he realized that it wasn't a dream… it wasn't Jessica… it was real, and it was near. He cautiously turned his head and looked toward Dean's bed. The room was dark except for two candles lit on the mantle above the stone fireplace. They gave off a soft yellow glow that illuminated Dean and Brenna.

Sam blinked bleary, sleep-heavy eyes and tried to focus. Dean lay as he had before, blankets pulled to his waist, arm protecting his wounded ribs even in sleep. But now Sam could see that his skin glistened with sweat, and he was shivering. As Sam brought his brother completely into focus, he could see Dean's lips slightly parted, his brows pulled together in pain, and his chin trembling from a fever-chill.

Brenna sat on the other side of Dean, away from Sam, and was murmuring softly. He realized that she was singing. He strained his ears to catch the tune. It was in an odd rhythmic cadence… Sam blinked. He could see clearer now. She held Dean's hand at the thumb in one of hers, and with the other, she trailed a cloth down Dean's face, over his shoulders, across his chest.

Sam thought to move, to go over and relieve her, to take care of his brother, but then he saw Dean stiffen and clench his jaw, a muscle in his cheek twitch. His head pressed back against the pillow and his neck arched against some unknown pain. Brenna's arm tensed as she gripped his hand tighter. She raised her voice slightly and Sam recognized the words. She was singing Metallica. To Dean. His eyebrows shot up.

"_Never opened myself this way, life is ours, we live it our way, all these words I don't just say, and nothing else matters…"_

Dean seemed to hear her. He slowly relaxed into the pillow, easing the air out of his lungs slowly, and Sam watched as his hand eased back on the grip he had around Brenna's slim fingers. Sam held still, watching them, seeing something he hadn't seen since he was very young: Dean responding to someone's care besides his.

When he was a boy, Dean had let John care for him when he was sick or scared. Sam had watched and had recognized the same pattern of low, easy talking when Dean had cared for him. But as he grew, Dean stopped letting John take care of him. He stopped allowing anyone to see he needed to be cared for, until, Sam realized, he stopped believing that he needed it.

As Sam watched Brenna once again trail the cloth down Dean's sweaty face, soothing him, holding him with her words, with the cadence of her song, with her understanding of how he dealt with pain, his heart ached for the touch he'd lost and the touch Dean would never allow himself to have. The touch of surrender, of faith, of believing in someone else's ability to keep his heart safe, to not betray him. The touch of a woman who loved him. Sam felt his eyes burn and he turned his face up to the ceiling, blinking away the tears of memory that threatened to spill.

"I can't… let him know…" Dean breathed, his voice rough with pain and fever. Sam looked back over at them.

"Shhhh," Brenna soothed, carefully running the pad of her thumb across Dean's eyebrows, working the worry line from his face. "It's okay, Dean."

Dean shook his head slightly, his eyes still closed. "He won't understand." His voice was low, his lips barely moved, but somehow Sam heard every syllable.

"Yes he would," Brenna assured him. "He would, Dean."

Sam licked his lips, wondering if Brenna really knew what Dean meant, or if she was just reassuring him.

"Sleep," she murmured, still stroking his face. "Sleep, Dean. _Tá mo chroí istigh ionat." _

Sam was struck by the beauty of those foreign words in Brenna's voice. As he watched, she leaned over and carefully pressed her lips against Dean's. Dean responded, lifting his head slightly from the recesses of the pillow, but Brenna pulled away, pressing her fingers against his mouth. She stood and pulled the blanket up higher onto Dean's chest.

Sam held still, watching her. She set the rags on the metal first aid kit, then picked up a pewter mug. Sam's eyes opened wide when she walked over to him, setting the mug down beside his bed. He wondered how long she'd been aware that he was awake.

"He needs to drink that when he wakes up," she whispered.

"Where are you going?"

"Don't worry about that, Sam," she smiled. "Just take care of him."

"Brenna, don't –"

"I've got it under control," she interrupted him. She looked over her shoulder at Dean. "He's been asleep for about six hours now," she said.

Sam blinked. Dean hadn't slept that long in weeks. Then he realized what that also meant. Brenna's deadline was fast approaching.

"I'll see you in the morning," she said, looking back at him.

The dancing light from the candles reflected in her eyes and Sam shivered slightly at the effect. She left the room and he lay back on the bed, listening to the silence punctuated only by Dean's soft breathing. He lost track of time. He might've fallen back to sleep. The sound of his name roused him and he realized that the soft light from the candles had been replaced by the pale light of dawn.

"Sam?"

"Hey," Sam sat up, holding his wounded shoulder, now stiff from a night of not moving.

He looked over at Dean, noticing how the sheen of fever was gone from his brother's face, but that the bruises still stood out against his pale skin.

"It was me…" Dean whispered, his head tilted to the side, his eyes wide as they stared at Sam, but, Sam saw, no longer glassy. "I thought she was talking about you…"

Sam stood stiffly and walked the short distance to Dean's bed, sitting on the edge. "Who, Dean?"

"It was an honorable death, she said. A warrior's death," Dean was staring right at him, but Sam got the disconcerting feeling that he was seeing someone else. "When I remembered that before… I thought she was talking about you. I thought she meant you were going to die… But, I remember it now… She was talking about me."

"You didn't die," Sam said, reaching for Dean's arm, but pulled back when the look in Dean's eyes shifted from distant to focused.

"I was gonna leave you, Sammy…"

"What?"

"I thought you wouldn't understand… that you'd think I wanted to leave…"

"Why would I think that?"

"I had a choice," he said, licking his lips, then reaching up and rubbing his face. "She gave me a choice, and I was gonna choose to go with her."

Sam felt cold. He put it together quickly. Dean was talking about Tessa. He knew a reaper had been after Dean in the hospital, and Sam was now certain Tessa was that reaper. Dean had been forced to choose to die.

"You didn't, Dean."

Dean dropped his hand and shifted to his side. "Because of Dad."

Sam remained silent. He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know that it wasn't the truth. And he didn't know how to tell Dean that he was glad.

"Where's Brenna?" Dean asked, looking past Sam, out of the doorway of the small room.

Sam started to shake his head, when the realization dawned on him. "Shit!"

Dean looked at him. "What?"

"Dammit!" Sam shot to his feet. "She's just enough like you to do it, too."

"What the hell are you talking about, Sam?"

"She went after the Ardagh," Sam looked down at Dean.

"What? How do you know? How does she even know where it is?"

Dean pushed himself slowly to a sitting position, cradling his ribs, his hair sticking up in tufts around the back of his head. Sam saw that the bruising that decorated the canvas of his brother's skin was more colorful than it had been before – the red welt-like marks were fading to a deep purple, and there was a display of greens and yellows across Dean's chest and back.

"Not that hard to figure out, man," Sam grumbled. He stalked over to the duffel of clothes and began digging in it. "We've been exactly two places since we got here, and it's obviously not here."

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. He rotated his legs over the side of the bed. He started to push himself to his feet.

"Wait," Sam ordered.

"Sam, I'm not staying here, while—"

"Would you shut up a minute, Captain Paranoid?" Sam retrieved the pewter mug and handed it to Dean, who was staring at him with raised eyebrows. "You need to drink this."

"What is it?" Dean took the mug from him, peering into it.

Sam shrugged. "Witches brew. Just drink it."

He pulled out Dean's clothes, glancing to make sure Dean did as he was told. He suppressed a grin when Dean shuddered from the taste. He handed his brother a grey Henley, black T-shirt, and jeans. He watched closely as Dean reached out and took the clothes from him, watching for signs of a returning fever.

"You need help?"

Dean took a breath and squared his shoulders. "I'll get back to you on that," he said.

Sam changed out of his smoke-saturated clothes, and watched as Dean stood on unsteady legs, pulling off his sweats and stepping into his jeans. He paused a moment to lean against the fireplace before pulling the shirts slowly over his head and easing his arms into the sleeves. Sam shook his head. Dean was obviously feeling better; he had that expression he wore that said he'd rather chew off his own arm than ask for help.

Waiting until Dean could once again step away from the support of the wall, Sam stepped out into the destroyed kitchen holding their duffel.

"What the hell?"

Sam looked back over his shoulder at Dean's comment. Dean was looking around the ruined room with wide eyes.

"Dean, this is the third time you've seen this," Sam said, spacing his words carefully.

Dean looked up, his eyebrows inverted V's of surprise. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious," Sam said, frowning. Dean had been pretty out of it last night… going after Brenna, facing the IRA, was _not_ something he needed to be doing right now. He needed to be in bed, rest, healing. But one look at the line of steel that was Dean's jaw made Sam realize any argument to that end would fall on deaf ears.

He looked away from his brother and saw that the door he and Brenna had wedged in place was still there. "She must have gone out another way," he muttered, pulling out Dean's knife.

Without looking, he handed the knife and its sheath back behind him to his brother and felt the weight of it lifted from his hand. He took a gun from the duffel, checked the chamber and ejected the magazine, reloaded, flicked the safety on, and handed it back to Dean, then did it once more for himself. He looked back at Dean who was standing near the kitchen counter, looking down at the radio.

"What?" Sam asked, tucking the gun into his waistband.

"Were you guys listening to Metallica last night?" Dean's eyebrows were pulled together.

Sam pulled his arms around to his sides slowly, watching Dean. Dean's eyes darted quickly in thought as Sam remained silent. He watched as Dean straightened, realization dawning slowly. He turned and looked at Sam, his eyes going cold with resolution as they rested on Sam's face.

"Let's go get her back, Sam," he said. Sam nodded once and went to the door, removing the wedges of wood. They took a step back in unison as the door toppled backwards into the house, then, stepping on the fallen door and out onto the porch.

The air was chilly, and Sam could see his breath condense in front of him. He looked askance to Dean and shook his head slightly at the site of his battered brother. Dean stood with his legs braced apart, his hands at his sides, his eyes surveying the lot. The Grande National was still there, broken. The Impala was still there – and Sam noticed for the first time that the passenger side door was slightly ajar.

"What'd she do, walk?" Dean said.

Sam shrugged. "What would you have done?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Walk."

They stepped down the stairs of the porch, Dean pressing a hand to his damaged ribs. Sam winced in sympathy, but didn't bother suggesting he stay behind. He knew that he could drive away from Dean and look in the rearview mirror and see his brother walking down the road after him, bruised and broken or not.

"You know where the… wine glass… is?" Dean asked, gritting his teeth as he slid into the passenger side of the car.

Sam started up the Impala. "I threw it out of the window --- used it to break the glass and get you out."

Sam saw Dean press his lips together. "You did good, Sammy," he said in a low voice.

Sam smiled to himself as he pulled out of the dirt lot and onto the highway toward the church lot.

"So did you," he said.

Dean pulled his head back in question. "What are you talking about?"

_You taught me to fight, you taught me to survive, you taught me who I was and how to hold onto that, you fought for me, you killed for me, you resisted, you believed, you stayed…_

"You stayed."

Dean was silent for a minute, then he shook his head with a whispered, "Jesus, Sammy…"

"I don't care if you think it was because of Dad, Dean," Sam said, glancing over at his brother's battered face. "You stayed. That's all that matters to me."

Dean said nothing, focusing his gaze out of the front window, his left hand cradling his side protectively. Sam didn't push. He could wait. He would wait. There was more to say, more Dean needed to know. They drove the rest of the way to the church in silence, the hum of Led Zeppelin's _In My Time of Dying_ filtering through the interior of the Impala. As they approached the turn off, Sam could smell the ashes mixed with a dampness of the morning.

"Damn," Dean breathed, surveying the blackened hull of the abandoned church.

Sam's stomach clenched at the sight. Dean had been in there – they both had been in there. The walls that had been made of brick were still standing, but had crumbled significantly and were edged with black. Narrow tendrils of smoke wafted through the windows from what Sam assumed had been the roof, pews, and altar. Fire was destined to be part of their lives, and seemed to crave to be the reason for their demise. Sam shook his head. He caught sight of the black car the same time Dean did. He shared a look with his brother, stopped the car, and killed the engine.

"They found her," Dean stated in a deadly voice.

He opened the door and stepped out. Sam joined him, marveling for a moment the ease in which Dean suddenly moved. If he couldn't see the bruising, he might have forgotten that anything had happened to his brother. Dean pulled his gun out, flicked off the safety, then started for the church with barely a glance back at Sam. He began to walk toward what once had been the front door.

"Dean," Sam hissed.

"What?" Dean looked back over at him, his eyebrows furrowed in irritation.

Sam jerked his head to the side of the ruined building. Dean looked to where Sam was indicating, then nodded in understanding.

"Good thinking, Sammy," he said, a slight smile on his face. They moved slowly to the side door, splitting their attention between that and the front opening.

Sam knew that Brenna could have figured it out, could have realized what it was he'd thrown out of the window during the fire, but he scanned the ground for the small golden goblet anyway. He didn't see it. Dean leaned with his back to the wall just outside the opening. He held his gun up, at the ready, and it took Sam a moment to see that he was catching his breath, balancing himself. His face was covered in a fine layer of sweat and his lips were pressed tight.

Sam opened his mouth to ask Dean if he was up to it when they heard the voices. They were increasing in volume as they grew closer. Sam closed his eyes, concentrating, separating. Three men, one woman. All were speaking Gaelic. All were angry. They moved through the ruined church until they were parallel to the side door. He opened his eyes and met Dean's. Dean nodded once and rolled around the edge of the doorway to step into what once was the sanctuary. Sam was at his heels.

"Hey!" Dean barked, his gun pointed at the head of the closest man. All four whipped around to look at them. Sam immediately recognized Eamon and two of his sons. He figured Mick was the one that was missing, since his shoulder had very recently been ventilated by Dean's well-placed bullet.

"Who _are_ you people," Eamon snarled, his lip curling in disgust.

Sam mimicked Dean's stance, narrowing his eyes as James – or was it Liam? – pulled Brenna tight against him and she gasped.

"Just the fly in the ointment, the monkey in the wrench, the pain in the ass," Dean quoted, not dropping his eyes, moving forward slowly.

"This has nothing to do with you," Eamon said, grabbing Brenna from his son and roughly pulling her to him.

"Let go, you bastard," she growled, swinging, clawing, and kicking.

Before Sam or Dean could do anything, Eamon turned Brenna around and backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling in the ashes.

"You just signed your death warrant, Chief," Dean said, his voice low and dangerous, cocking his gun to punctuate his sentence. Sam's eyes darted from Brenna on the ground, holding her bleeding lip, to Dean's profile as his brother advanced on Eamon. The other two drew their guns and pointed them in unison at Sam.

"Kill me, and he's next," Eamon said calmly, flicking a challenging eyebrow at Dean. "You can't win."

"That won't matter to you," Dean said. "'Cause you'll be dead."

"You would risk him?" Eamon said, narrowing his eyes at Dean.

Sam felt sweat break out on his upper lip, his eyes on Dean. His brother's face was impassive, his eyes steady, his arms braced.

"What happened to your timetable, Pops," Dean asked. "You're about twelve hours too early."

"Our needs changed," Eamon roughly kicked one of Brenna's legs out of the way as he approached Dean.

Sam heard her gasp and shifted his eyes to her. As he did so, he saw the small pistol that was in Eamon's hand, dropped from a holster in his sleeve. As if in slow motion, Sam saw Dean shift his attention for one moment down to Brenna at her gasp of pain, saw Eamon lift his hand, expertly shifting the gun from the palm of his hand to his grip and cock it as Dean's attention turned back to face him.

Sam knew he wouldn't be fast enough. He moved toward Dean, oblivious of the brothers' guns trained on him, thinking only that Dean wouldn't see it, Dean wouldn't know. He propelled his body as quickly as he could, but it was as though he were moving underwater. He knew he wouldn't be fast enough. He had a brief moment to register the look of resignation that crossed Dean's face before the unexpected punch of power knocked them off of their feet.

Sam landed hard on his back, the wind exiting his lungs in a rush. Dean's shoulders and head hit Sam's chest as he fell back into him. Time suddenly resumed its normal speed and Sam struggled to sit up, pushing Dean with him. He looked around and saw that Eamon and his sons were sprawled on the ground, each in a different direction. He looked over at Brenna.

She sat in the ash, her bottom lip bleeding, her jaw red, her eyes predatory. She looked dangerous and fragile at the same time. She shifted her druid eyes to Eamon, watching as he sat up.

"It's unnatural…" Eamon panted. "This power you have. I told Jack," he continued, holding his arm. Sam saw blood trickling down the side of the elder man's face. "I told him we should have killed you when we had the chance…"

"What?" Brenna said, her voice ice-cold.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, reaching down and pulling Dean with him. Dean moved slowly, the fight seemingly knocked out of him, and Sam didn't want to think what Brenna's punch of power had done to Dean's already broken ribs.

"Oh, yes," Eamon panted, clearly not finished torturing Brenna with facts from her past. "I was there. I put a bullet in your mother's eye. You didn't know that did you?" His chuckle sent chills up Sam's spine. "You saw it, you know. You watched the whole thing."

Brenna crouched low, looking very much like an animal about to pounce.

"You're right, old man," she growled. "You should have killed me when you had the chance." Sam saw her hand reach blindly in the ash and watched as her fingers closed confidently around the grip of Dean's gun. He hadn't even realized Dean had dropped it. "Because you've lived long enough to regret it."

She stood, pointed the gun at him, quickly stepped over the top of him and pushed him to the floor with her boot. Shifting once, she pressed the sole of her shoe into his neck and Sam heard him gasp for air.

"Brenna, wait," he tried. He stepped forward, reaching his hand out. He never saw the hit. His leg was swept out from under him as he stepped forward, and Sam flipped to his back, the air once again leaving him. James – Sam recognized him now as the sadistic bastard who had used Dean as a soccer ball -- pressed a knee on Sam's sternum and a gun to Sam's forehead.

"Let him go," James said, his eyes on Sam, but his words directed to Brenna.

Sam thought wildly _where is Dean_ one second before he heard Liam cry out, and something clatter to the ground. He frantically shifted his eyes to the side and saw Liam standing awkwardly against the wall, Dean's bowie knife sticking out of his hand, his gun on the ground at his feet. Sam shifted his eyes trying to see his brother. Dean was leaning slightly forward, his right arm extended in the follow-through from his throw.

"Look at that," Dean said, a slight tremor betraying him only to Sam. "Turns out there is a reason to bring a knife to a gun fight."

Sam heard Dean's boots hit the floor, listened as he walked over to Liam, listened as Liam cried out again when Dean pulled his knife from the Irishman's hand.

"Oh. Sorry," Dean lied. Sam could now only see Dean's legs from the angle he was laying. James pressed the gun harder into his forehead and Sam closed his eyes, biting back a groan. The knee in his chest was starting to constrict his breathing.

"Listen to me," Dean said, his low voice commanding authority. "You're both going to back off, and we're going to settle this nice and easy."

"Forget it," Brenna growled.

"Brenna," Sam heard Dean drop his voice. "He'll kill Sam."

"So you kill him before he can," she shot back.

At that James reached up and grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair, yanking his head back and shoved the gun into the soft part under Sam's chin. Sam couldn't hold the groan of pain in this time. The barrel of the gun pressed his jaw together painfully hard.

"Don't risk it, boy-o," James taunted. "You wouldn't want to be accidentally killing him in the process."

"You shut up," Dean snapped. "Brenna," he said again, his voice low. "Please."

"You heard him, Dean!" Sam heard Brenna's gun cock. "He shot her. And he could care less."

Sam heard something shift and he forced his eyes open. If he didn't know better, he would say he heard Dean's knife hilt rub against his jeans as Dean adjusted his grip.

"Brenna, _please_," Dean tried again. "I can't let you do this."

"You gonna stop me, Dean?"

"If I have to."

Sam closed his eyes.

"He killed my mother."

"I know," Dean whispered.

"He deserves to _die_."

"I know," Dean said again.

"Dean..." her voice seemed to catch on his name, as though saying it brought her focus back.

"I will do what I have to, to save him," Dean seemed to be reminding her.

"I know," Brenna answered, and her voice was so final that Sam tried to say something, tried to cry out, tried to stop her, but he couldn't open his mouth against the gun. He held his breath, waiting, listening, hoping.

Suddenly, the pressure against his jaw vanished. He opened his eyes. Dean face immediately replaced James' looming presence. He shifted his eyes to the side and saw James standing next to his father, Eamon rubbing his neck where Brenna's boot had left a tread-shaped bruise.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Dean?"

"C'mon, man," Dean offered his hand, which nearly made Sam laugh. Dean could no more pull him to his feet right now than he could run a marathon. Sam stood on his own power, noting as he did so that Dean looked like a gust of wind could knock him on his ass.

"You have the Ardagh," Eamon rasped.

"Yeah," Dean shrugged. "So?"

"Jack will come for it," Eamon predicted. "And he will leave nothing in his wake."

"Jack's a real bad-ass, is he?" Dean lifted an eyebrow.

"He will come for it," Eamon repeated.

Dean motioned to Eamon with the tip of his knife, Liam's blood still on the blade. "You know what? You tell him to come."

"Dean?" Sam asked, rubbing the base of his chin.

"Tell him to come, meet us at the bar, at what, noon tomorrow?" Dean turned to look at Sam, as though checking his thinking. "Yeah, noon sounds about right."

"And why would I do that?" Eamon demanded.

"Because you want the…"

"Ardagh," Sam supplied.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "That."

Eamon glared at Dean, then motioned with his head for James to gather Liam and leave. As he followed his sons out of the door, he glanced back at Brenna.

"_Tiocfaidh ár lá."_

Sam saw Brenna's head snap up.

"_Póg mo thóin!"_ she replied.

Sam watched the Irishmen leave, and waited until he heard the car pull away, until he turned back to Dean. Dean was literally swaying on his feet. Sam reached out and grasped his arm, steadying him. His worry increased when Dean leaned his shoulder against Sam's. He looked over at Brenna, who stood silently, watching them, Dean's gun hanging loosely from her grip.

"This is it," Dean said, his voice nearly a whisper. "No more, okay." Sam glanced down at him. Dean was looking at Brenna. "We do this together, or we don't do it at all."

Sam held tighter to Dean's arm, watching Brenna. Her tongue darted out to the cut on her lip, her eyes slowly receding to their normal green-gold.

"They're gonna win," she said.

"No, they won't," Sam responded.

She shook her head. "Jack really is a bad-ass, Dean," she said, rubbing the back of her hand over her mouth. "He may have saved my life, but he still managed to find a way to take it away from me."

Sam felt Dean pull away from him, and he kept his hand on Dean's arm to balance him. He looked at his brother's profile, saw the pain in his features overshadowed by the strength in his eyes.

"Then we gotta take it back."

www

_a/n:_

_Music:_

"_Right Here Waiting" by Staind_

"_Long Way Home" by Stone Temple Pilots_

"_The Gift" by Seether_

"_Sober" by Tool_

"_Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica_

Translations:

_Níl gach uile fhánaí caillte. Not all who wander are lost._

_Tá mo chroí istigh ionat. My heart is within you_

_Tiocfaidh ár lá. Our day will come (this is "unofficially" the slogan of the Irish Republican movement)_

_Póg mo thóin! Kiss my ass_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1 _

_a/n: You guys have sustained me through a very trying week. Thank you so much for reading and for your continued reviews. I hope you enjoy this next chapter, which, incidentally, flashes back to a bit from one of my other stories, "Within My Hands." It's not necessary to read that story to understand what Dean is going through, though. I began this with a story in my mind about the brothers and with the addition of Brenna as enhancement… I hope as you read the next three chapters (yep, it will be eight) that's what you get from the journey… I look forward to seeing what you think._

_E and Kelly, thank you both so much for the confidence, the encouragement, and the help with the bane of my existence: homophones._

_www_

_If you're going through hell, keep going. - Winston Churchill_

Into the Fire – Chapter 6

Dean kept his eyes on Eamon as the Irish gang exited the church. That man was going to be trouble. Dean knew instinctively that he wouldn't stick to the noon deadline, but he hoped that Brenna and Sam believed. He knew they needed to believe to get through what was coming. Especially Sam. He needed to believe that they could win, or Dean was afraid of what Sam might do – he used to know… he used to know his brother better than anyone. But since finding out that he could go, as he put it, _dark side_… Sam had been a bit harder to predict.

As he watched the men leave, Dean's vision wavered and he felt himself sway. Sam's hand was instantly gripping his right arm, just above the elbow. He couldn't help it; he let himself lean into Sam's grip until his shoulder was touching his brother's. He knew it would worry Sam, but it was that or let himself fall over. At the moment, leaning on Sam was the lesser of two evils. He wanted to be strong…_needed_ to be unbreakable, but at the moment he felt hollow, and he knew that he was as close as he'd ever been to breaking.

"This is it," Dean said, his voice nearly a whisper. "No more, okay." He looked over at Brenna. She was standing with her feet braced apart, his gun hanging limply from her fingers. "We do this together, or we don't do it at all."

He felt Sam's hand grip tighter on his arm, but he kept his eyes on Brenna. Her tongue darted out to the cut on her lip, her eyes slowly receding to their normal green-gold.

"They're gonna win," she said.

"No, they won't," he heard Sam respond in an automatic denial.

Dean almost shook his head in wonder, but he forced himself to remain still. It was one quality he admired most in Sam: his inability to believe that evil would triumph over good. Even after all they'd been through, even after all they'd lost, Sam still believed that the light side of the Force was stronger than the dark. Dean desperately hoped he never lost that.

Brenna shook her head in response to Sam's denial.

"Jack really is a bad-ass, Dean," she said, rubbing the back of her hand over her mouth, looking toward them, but not at them. "He may have saved my life, but he still managed to find a way to take it away from me."

The hopelessness in her tone triggered something in him…something that he associated with Sam… something that meant _stop this, make this better, protect this, save this_… He pulled away from Sam's support, from his balance. Steadying himself, he leveled his eyes at Brenna, pulling whatever reserves of strength he kept inside to keep him moving forward, to keep him from collapsing, into that look. Willing her to believe him.

"Then we gotta take it back," he said.

Brenna's eyes shot to his, focusing, watching.

"Can we?"

He nodded, but the surge of adrenaline that had carried him from the house to the church was beginning to leave him. He felt it leaking out of his pores as though his body was crying. He could see Sam tense out of the corner of his eyes. He set his jaw, wrapping an arm around his aching ribs. It was beginning to be hard to take a full breath. He was not about to go down again, though. Not in front of Sam. He was supposed to take care of Sam… he shouldn't need Sam to take care of him.

"We will," he said, pitching his voice low to get under the weakness, under the pain. "But, uh, first we gotta find the…"

"It's in the cemetery," Brenna said, shifting her eyes to Sam. "I kinda figured it out."

"Yeah, well," Dean heard the shrug in Sam's voice. "Maybe there's more to you than mind invasion."

Dean shot his eyes over to Sam's profile, surprised. Sam's tone had been indifferent, but his eyes were angry. Dean had seen that look many times before – directed at John. Sam continued to stare at Brenna, and Dean looked back over at her. As though his brother's words had hit her physically, Brenna's head was tipped back, her hands clenched at her sides. Dean saw his gun tremble in her grip.

Before either of them could say anything else, Dean stepped up to her, forcing her to look at him by his mere proximity.

"Give me the gun, Brenna," he said softly.

He felt a small trickle of sweat run down the side of his face. He watched her eyes, watched them meet his, see him, challenge him, then melt. She didn't move, her face didn't flinch, but he knew when he'd won. Her eyes pleaded with him to understand something that he knew she didn't understand herself – why she couldn't release the anger, why she'd almost killed a man, why she'd put Sam at risk, why she was starting to break.

"Dean," she whispered, her eyes flicking down to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. "I wouldn't have let them kill him."

"Give me the gun, Brenna," he repeated, holding his hand out, palm up.

She looked down at his hand. She seemed to have trouble moving.

"I never knew I was there that night," she whispered.

Dean watched her closely. She stood so still she almost seemed made of glass. He could barely see her breathing. A bead of blood on her lip trembled slightly with a breath, then tipped over the edge and he watched it leave a thin crimson trail down her chin. She kept her eyes focused on his hand, lifted, palm up, waiting.

"Da never said," she continued, her voice so low that Dean wondered if Sam could hear. He could sense Sam very near, could almost feel his brother's breath.

"You were pretty little," Dean said. But he knew they were just words. She'd been four. At four, he knew, you remember. If Declan had never told her, Dean realized, it had been his way of protecting her from something she had forced herself to forget.

He remembered everything the night his mother died. Every sound, every smell, every texture. He remembered the sturdy feel of his father's strong arms as he leapt confidently into them. He remembered his father's scream of his mother's name. He remembered the smell, the horrible, hot smell coming from Sammy's room. He remembered the heat. He remembered the weight of the baby in his arms. He remembered the soft feeling of the blanket. He remembered the sound of his own breathing fighting the beating of his heart for dominance in his ears.

"Dean?"

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can… now, Dean, GO!_

"Hey, man…"

Dean blinked. Sam was standing next to him, a hand carefully resting on Dean's shoulder. He shifted his eyes, feeling like he'd lost time, like he had missed something. He looked at Brenna. She hadn't moved.

"You okay?" Sam's voice sounded young.

Dean nodded, not looking at him. "Give me the gun, Brenna," he asked for a third time, leaving no room for argument in his voice.

This time she seemed to break from her reverie. She lifted the gun as if it weighed 100 pounds, shifting the safety on with her thumb as she did so, and placed it in Dean's open hand. He felt his arm sink slightly with the familiar weight. He turned it swiftly in his grip, carefully reaching behind him to stuff the barrel in the back waistband of his jeans. His ribs protested the movement and he bit back a gasp.

"Thanks," he said tightly. She nodded, then took a step back, turned from him and went out the side door toward the cemetery.

Dean kept his eyes on her, but didn't yet move. He was cold, but could still feel sweat trickling down his face. He knew that wasn't good. Something was off – had been off since this morning when he stood up. He wasn't just post-battle sore – this pain in his chest, in his head… it was constant, present, real. It just wasn't the morning after pain that camped out in the bones and declared that it would be around awhile. For a moment he felt as he had the minute he'd banished the wraith.

He didn't look at Sam, but the weight of his brother's hand on his shoulder was almost painful – as though even his nerve endings were raw, open, frayed. He wanted to shift away from Sam, but as he watched Brenna make her way through the sunken, weather-worn tombstones, he knew that any movement at that moment would betray him to Sam's hawkeyed gaze.

He took a mental tally. He could feel the dull ache of pain from two sutured gashes in his head, the ribs on his right side felt like they were grinding on each other, but other than that, it was only bruising. He'd had worse before. Much worse. In this very town. He'd died here. It didn't make sense to him that he felt so weak, so dizzy, so cold as the result of… bruising.

He turned slightly, feeling Sam loosen his grip to allow him to rotate, but not completely release his shoulder. He looked at the ash-covered area beneath the window gaps along the wall. It had been there. The wraith had almost defeated him right there. It had taken something from him right there. He could feel the echoes of the pain, and his body trembled as he stared. He felt Sam's grip tighten, but he remained silent.

"Let's get out of here, Sam," he muttered, resolutely shifting his eyes from the scene of the wraith's attack and looking out toward Brenna. He watched as she stopped her slow search, bent and retrieved something from a tangle of yellowing weeds growing high around a tombstone. She stood and turned to face him, holding the gold goblet aloft.

"She's got it," Sam said, his voice low, an undercurrent of concern and irritation filtering through it that had always meant _let me help, lean on me_.

Dean nodded and moved forward, away from Sam's grip, toward the light sifting in through the doorway. There were times he wanted to let Sam help, times he wanted to lean on Sam. But those moments were quickly erased with one real look at Sam.

Dean could see in a glance at his brother's dark eyes that the effects of the past year were never going to leave Sam, never going to give him peace. He saw each vision add weight to the already heavy burden Sam put on his soul. He saw Sam struggle, fear, resolve, and waiver. He saw Sam _need _and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to be there to fill that need.

He moved forward with purposeful strides, his thoughts scattering and coalescing with a dizzying cadence as he walked toward Brenna, Sam at his heels. He would be fine. He was always fine. He just needed to keep moving, keep checking, keep blocking. He needed to get Brenna out of there, keep the IRA away from her… He needed to help Sam get back to the search for Ava… He needed to sit down.

He instinctively reached out for the brick wall and realized he'd already crossed the threshold of the doorway. His fingers met the solid arm of his brother. He closed his grip on Sam's shirt for a moment, took a breath, then straightened as much as his ribs would allow. The hollow feeling inside of him seemed to grow and he blinked.

"Dean," Sam's voice was close. Dean kept his eyes on Brenna, the Ardagh in her hand, her eyes on him. "Dean, c'mon."

"C'mon what?"

"Let's get to the car," Sam's voice was practically inside of his head. It was echoing.

"Where the hell do you think I'm goin', Sam?" A hum began in the back of his head. A rhythmless tone of music that distracted him.

"Well," Sam's tone was a forced levity. "From the looks of it, you're walking into the cemetery. Car's this way."

Dean blinked, and Brenna suddenly doubled. He blinked again, and she managed to pull herself back together. He turned his head in the direction of Sam's voice.

"Oh. Right."

"You okay, man?"

"Fine."

"You sure? 'Cause you – Dean!"

"What?" _Damn_ his voice was loud.

"You are _not_ okay."

"God, let it go already."

Sam's left hand suddenly gripped his elbow, pulling him forward.

"Easy!"

"Dean, the car is _this_ way."

"That's where I was going."

"Whatever," Sam's voice was heavy with irritation.

"Dude, hands off," Dean pulled his arm out of Sam's grasp. "I got it." The hum grew louder.

"…stubborn bastard… not impressing… don't know how you managed…"

"What?" Dean tipped his head toward Sam. "Sam, if you're gonna talk, then talk. Mumbling is just damn annoying."

"…scaring me… going on with you…"

Dean saw the Impala. It stood out like a beacon of clarity in the strangely blurred background. He picked up his pace, aware that he was putting distance between himself and Sam. As he reached for the passenger door handle, he stumbled. He tried to close his fingers around the handle and felt as though his hand slid right through. He stopped breathing, staring at the door. _No…no, not again… I am here… I am __here_.

"Sam."

"Yeah," Sam said, his voice close.

"Hit me."

"What? No way! Are you nuts? You're barely on your feet."

"Sam," Dean felt the panic that was starting to choke off his air sift through his voice. "Hit me, push me, something." _Touch me, let me know I'm really here…_

He felt a hand on his arm, a gentle hand, a small hand. He looked down at his arm and saw Brenna's slim fingers. He trailed his eyes up her arm to her shoulder, her neck, her bruised, bleeding mouth, her eyes. Her gold-green eyes stayed steady, holding his.

"Take a breath," she said. He dropped his eyes to her mouth, watching her lips. He felt her fingers tighten on his arm. "Take a breath," she repeated.

He obeyed. The hum in his head began to quiet. He looked up from her mouth to her eyes. The corners turned up in a slight smile. "Try it again."

He reached for the door handle, and was reassured when he was able to close his fingers around the metal. He pulled the door open and glanced up at Brenna.

She shrugged. "You just missed it the first time is all."

Her words felt heavy. He narrowed his eyes, but she moved past him and climbed into the back seat. He slid into the car, holding his right arm tight against his side and reached across to pull the door shut with this left arm. He caught sight of Sam, standing just outside of the door, staring at him.

"What is it, Sam?"

Sam shook his head wordlessly, his eyes shadowed, his face tense. He was looking at Dean with an expression that Dean had seen before – like he was waiting for Dean to say something, to confess. Waiting for him to reveal something that he didn't even know he kept secret.

"Sam?"

"Nothing," Sam said, shaking his head again. He pushed Dean's door shut and Dean watched him walk around the front of the car to the driver's side. Sam slid behind the wheel and slammed his door.

"Hey! Easy with her," Dean protested.

"Sorry!" Sam snapped.

"Sam, what the hell—"

"Just forget it, man."

Dean was tired, his body ached, his head swam, his vision was tilting at regular intervals… he didn't have the energy to argue. "Fine."

He saw Sam shoot a look over to him, his eyes hot, his mouth tensed, ready to launch, but something stopped him. Dean leaned his head back against the seat, grateful for whatever that something was. He closed his eyes.

"We need to be ready," he said. "In case noon comes early for the Irish."

"I know," Brenna said, her voice sounding small and far away in the back seat.

Sam turned the Impala around and headed down the gravel road. Dean let the motion of his car shift him slightly in the seat so that his forehead was resting against the cool glass of the window. He was sweating again, but he could feel a chill inside, a tremble that began around his heart and began to slowly spread through his limbs.

"What's so great about that damn cup," Dean mused through numb lips, his eyes still closed.

"It's… symbolic," Brenna answered. Dean could barely hear her.

"To the IRA?" Sam asked.

"To the Irish," Brenna must have leaned forward, Dean realized, because her voice seemed like it was coming from his shoulder. "It is named after a town… one of the oldest in Ireland. Like, 450 AD old," Brenna continued. "The chalice was one of the communion cups used by St. Patrick."

"Like… green beer St. Patrick?" Dean asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"That's the one," Brenna said, her hands rustling softly along the leather of the seat as she rested against it. "Whoever has the chalice of St. Patrick will be victorious in battle… or something like that… 'course, they could want to sell it on eBay for all I know and use the money…" she sighed. "The point is that they are terrorists. We can't let them have it. People will die."

Dean felt a jab of pain shift through his side and he bit the inside of his lower lip. He heard Sam take a breath, heard his mouth open to speak, heard the skin of his palms twist on the steering wheel… everything was loud, amplified, harsh. He pressed his eyes tighter, concentrating on the black of the back of his eyes.

"…to them it will all be over for you. You can be free of it," Sam was saying.

"Sam, I can't just… terrorism. Do you know what they are capable…"

Dean pulled his eyebrows together, trying to focus on their voices. The hum was back, and with it an almost white-hot pain lancing through his head. He felt his stomach churn and forced himself to breath through his nose. He clenched his left hand and with his right began tapping out the rhythm to Zeppelin's _Good Times Bad Times_ as it played very softly from the cassette.

"Think we lost the chance to take the moral high ground when… Declan… wraith…" Sam was saying, his voice cutting in and out like a bad radio station in Dean's head.

"_I know what it means to be alone, I sure do wish I was at home…"_

"Sam," Brenna's voice snapped with an almost static charge. "Jack won't just… just _walk away_ if we hand him the Ardagh."

"Why not?"

"Aw, c'mon, Sammy," Dean almost whispered, his jaw shaking a bit from the chill that had been building from his chest. "You've seen enough movies to know. They can't leave witnesses… all that."

"I don't –"

"Why else would he have sent an old fool like Declan to summon the wraith," Dean forced out through clenched teeth. _Damn_ but his head hurt.

"Dean?"

"Come to think of it," Dean said, his fingers trembling as they tapped out the beat of the next song. "How did some IRA dude know how to summon and banish a… _God…_ a fucking… wraith… ahh!"

The pain in his head overwhelmed him and he was unable to hold back the cry. He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow and tried to force back the ache. His body – the last line of defense between his brother and the evil of the world – was betraying him. He felt a searing, nerve-ending pain in his hands, his legs, his belly…

"…hang in there, okay," he could hear Sam's voice as if he were calling to him from the end of a long tunnel. "Stay with me… Dean?"

"What?" Dean snapped. God, couldn't Sam shut up? He was always talking talking talking asking questions always questions why couldn't he ever stop --- "Sam?"

"I'm here."

"Okay…" He was still there. Sam was there. _Damn wraith… damn Irish mobsters and their fucking cause…_

The car turned sharply around the last corner before the Kavanagh bar, and Dean let his body shift on the seat. He slid slowly, eyes still closed, one hand pressed to his left eyebrow, the other wrapped around his ribs. He stopped his slide when he bumped softly against Sam's shoulder. He kept his jaw clenched, breathing through his nose, keeping his stomach where it belonged -- inside of him.

"Turning again, man," Sam said. Dean tried to hold himself still, but almost sighed in relief when Sam snaked his wounded right arm out to grip Dean's arm and keep him still. "You okay?"

_Hell, no… I'm hollow, Sam… everything is falling inside… _"Yeah, fine," he said. "Just need to lie down a minute."

Dean felt the bump as the Impala crossed over into the dirt lot in front of the Kavanagh bar/motel and Brenna's house. He felt the car stop and waited until the familiar vibration ceased before he pulled himself straight. He reached for the door handle, realizing belatedly that there were three of them.

"Wait, Dean, just wait," Sam was saying and his voice faded as he got out of the car.

Dean ignored him, focusing on the middle handle, and grasping it, forcing the door open. The fresh air made him blink and his vision pulled together once more. He saw Sam standing just outside of the door and pushed himself slowly to his feet. Sam stepped forward.

"I got it, Sam," Dean muttered.

"I'll go clear a space," said a female voice. _Who the hell_?

"Thanks, Brenna," Sam was saying.

_Brenna…_ Dean lifted his eyes and watched her step from the Impala and head to the house. He'd forgotten about her. She cast a furtive glance behind her, met his eyes briefly, then picked up her pace jogging up the stairs and in through the opened doorway of the battered house.

Dean kept his hand on the body of the car as he moved down the length of the car, around the trunk. He heard Sam close the car door behind him. He focused on the house, starting toward the steps. The steps were going to be a bitch.

"Dean, goddammit," Sam said from behind him.

"What, Sam," Dean muttered. Just one step at a time…easy as that…

"You are a friggin' stubborn jerk, that's what," Sam growled, his voice hard.

"Bitch," Dean looked over at Sam as he lifted his leg to take the last step. He missed. He didn't even have time to blink as the world went white and gravity did white gravity was created to do.

The hum in his ears enveloped him, cushioning his fall, so that all he felt was the relief of no longer being upright. He tried to blink but realized that his eyes were closed. The blank canvas of white seemed to slowly fade to grey, then like a slow bleed, black began to take over.

"…get him up on the bed…"

Snatches of voices, muffled by distance, met his ears. He felt hands on his body, pulling, lifting, hurting. He wanted to push them away, to tell them to stop, tell them to just goddamn leave him alone but he couldn't lift his hands, couldn't speak, could barely breathe. His ribs were on fire and each gasp felt like it was punching a hole through his side. As the black began to outweigh the grey, he tried to call out, tried to call for Sam, but his lips were numb.

"Jesus, he's burning up…last time you checked…"

"…seemed fine this morning…"

The voices were familiar, but muted. He tried again to take a breath, but this time it felt like something heavy was sitting on his chest. He couldn't move his arms to push it off. He was hot, so hot. The heat was overpowering, suffocating, heavy.

"…have to get him cooled down…"

"Dammit, he's shaking so much…can't hold him still…"

He started to panic – the black was winning and something told him that when there was no more grey he wouldn't be able to hear the voices… and he wanted the voices… he wanted one voice.

"…hear me? I'm not going anywhere, I promise… open your eyes…"

He tried to do what the voice asked. He tried to open his eyes, but it was as if they weren't there. He was blind, he couldn't move, all he had was that voice… he had to hold on to that voice…

"Hey, man… stay… stay with me…"

The black completed its takeover and he was alone. He was alone in the dark. He tried again to breathe but the weight on his chest was too heavy. He felt small, almost visible tendrils of air sneak in. He couldn't see himself, couldn't feel himself. And he knew he'd been here before.

That thought sent a jolt through him. He'd been here before. He remembered. The _chauchemar_. New Orleans. It had trapped him inside of himself. But Sam… Sam had been there, then. Sam had been his light. Sam wasn't here. He was alone in the dark. He was numb, he was breathless, and he was alone.

_No_! He was _not_ going to go down like this, dammit. He made a promise. He had a job to do. He had to save Sam… save him from becoming that freaky-assed demon's bitch. Save him from evil. He shivered. _Cold! I feel cold… I feel! _He held on to that sensation as it started to flow over him, shutting out the heat. He felt his body shake, felt it wrack harshly back against something soft yet unrelenting. Felt his back arch against a pressure in his side. Felt a hot liquid flow into his mouth, down his throat, choking him, drowning him.

"Easy…easy, Sam, pour it slow…"

"Dean, you have to swallow this, okay… hey, hey, man, don't fight it… let this work, _please_ let this work…"

He tried once more to open his eyes, but the heat came back, this time with a crackling, a scream of sound, a familiar sensation of the air being sucked from his body. He felt his body arch up again as the remembered pain shot through him. He wanted to cry out, to scream, to rail against the invasion, against the helplessness, but he couldn't move and he couldn't breathe and he was silent.

"Hey, I got you…I got you…"

"Just hold him… don't let him move so much, Sam…"

"Dean, hey, take it easy…dammit, he's still so hot…"

A hand. He felt a hand, large, rough, familiar, heavy, brush across his forehead and back through his hair. He felt something cool, wet, trail down his face, across his numb lips.

Then heat was gone. The pain was gone. The sound was gone. He was alone in the dark. He knew he was sinking. The hollow inside of him was widening. He'd felt this before – a quick shock, an almost chilling sensation of transparency. He heard a voice in his head. _Kinda hurts a girl's feelings… it's an honorable death… a warrior's death… the fight's over… it is for you…_

No. _No, dammit_. There was something… something he had to do. Someone… someone needed him. Then he could go. Just this one thing… then he could go.

_I want you to watch out for Sammy…_

Sam! Save Sam… he had to save Sam, then he could go. He could rest. He could let the dark inside of him win. It was stronger than the light. He knew the dark would always win…

He felt his body shake once, hard. Something was covering him. Something cold. He wanted to pull away, but he still couldn't move. He was so cold, so cold. Sam. He had to get back to Sam. Sam was alone out there without him. He couldn't let that happen. But he was cold.

"…cold, Sammy…"

"I know, Dean, but we have to get your fever down," a voice answered him.

_Sam…_

"Hey, man," it was the voice he would know anywhere. The voice that could lead him back from the dark. "Can you open your eyes for me, Dean?"

He wanted to. He was tired of the dark. He wanted light. He wanted to believe in the possibility of light. He wanted to know that there was light out there for him. But the darkness inside was so strong. And the hollow inside was so large… he felt himself start to fall back in.

"Wait! No, c'mon Dean, don't… hey, stay with me, okay?"

"…trying…"

"I know. I know you are, man. Can you feel that? Can you feel my hand?"

A harsh, to the bone ache started in his side and began to seep through his body. He felt Sam's hand wrapped around his, but he couldn't seem to anchor himself. The ache became a hot pain. It shot from his fingertips to his shoulder and down his side with such ferocity that he clenched his jaw.

"..hurts…"

"God, Dean, I know… I know it hurts, but you just hang on, okay?"

Something was keeping him from Sam. Something kept him from coming back.

"Can't you do something? Give him something else?"

"I don't – I only know one more thing, but… but I've never tried it before."

"Brenna, _please_."

Something was keeping him from doing what he had always done: overcome. He knew this about himself. He knew it as sure as he knew rock salt repelled spirits and holy water burned demons. He overcame. He persevered. He survived. He did it for one reason. For Sam. But something was keeping him back. Something was missing.

He felt the liquid in his mouth again. It pooled there, seeped down his throat, caused him to cough, caused the searing pain in his side to flash white-hot, caused him to cry out and almost give in. To the dark, to the quiet. He felt himself sliding over an edge and he knew the only thing on the other side was no more pain. No more light. No more Sam. No more.

But Dean Winchester was not a man who gave up. He fought. He clenched his muscles, gritted his teeth, pulled himself up and away from the edge.

"Dean, squeeze my hand, okay?"

And he felt it. He felt Sam's long fingers wrapped tightly around his hand. He felt his brother's grip. He focused his whole being on that hand, that connection. And he tightened his fingers.

"Good! Good, that's it, Dean."

He was exhausted. He wanted to slip, to fall back into the hollow, to succumb to oblivion. But he knew if he did, he'd be lost.

"Shouldn't that last stuff you gave him be working?" he heard Sam say. "I thought you said it was powerful."

"I also said I hadn't used it before," said a soft female voice. "I think it is working… Sam, look. He's stopped shaking. Feel him."

He felt a large hand on face, across his brow, over his eyes.

"He's cooler… But he won't wake up," Sam's voice sounded young and scared. _Sammy, it's okay. I'm here. I'm here._

"I think he was… shutting down, Sam," said the woman. "I can… I could call him."

"What do you mean?"

"If you let me touch him… I could call him back."

_Brenna…_ He knew that voice. It was Brenna. He remembered her now.

"What if you hurt him worse?"

He felt Sam's hand tighten on his.

"I – I won't."

"That sounds real convincing."

"I promise, Sam."

_I'm here, Sam. I'm right here._

"Okay… but if you hurt him again… I swear to God, I'll let Jack take you."

"If I hurt him again… I'll go with him myself."

Dean tensed, listening, unsure of the significance of the words, knowing only that he could hear them, that he could feel Sam's hand around his, that even though he was wrapped in darkness, he wasn't alone.

He felt the soft caress of a slim hand in his empty one. He felt the surprisingly strong grip, and then there was light, blinding, vibrant, blue-white light all around him. If he could have flinched he would have. He wanted to blink, to shield eyes that weren't really there. He instinctively resisted the pull the light offered.

"Dean."

The voice was in his head, it shook his body, it echoed in him.

"Dean."

He tried to pull away, but couldn't move. This wasn't his light.

"You can open your eyes now."

And he blinked.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was softer, closer yet further away than the voice from the light.

He blinked again, and the blurry figure to his right started to form into something resembling his brother. "Sam?" His voice sounded strange. Rough. As if he'd been screaming.

"Yeah," Sam's voice trembled. Dean heard tears.

"You cryin'?"

"Yeah, maybe," Sam said. Dean blinked again and saw Sam's face clearer this time. Dimples showed up in his brother's cheeks.

"What'er you grinnin' at?"

"My stubborn-ass brother, that's what."

Dean blinked again. He never wanted to stop blinking. He licked his lips.

"Why is my mouth fuzzy?"

Sam laughed. Dean felt the corner of his mouth pull up in an automatic response to Sam's laugh.

"Brenna gave you something."

"Did it have fur?"

"No," Sam chuckled. "Not this time."

Sam let go of his hand and Dean flexed his fingers, lifting his hand slowly to rub at his eyes. They felt odd, puffy, too big for his face. He rolled his eyes back to Sam. His brother looked like he'd been through the wringer. His face was pale and drawn, his hair pushed back in random tufts as though he'd been twisting it in his fingers all night. Dean remembered he used to do that when he was little.

"You're gonna pull it all out and be bald, you keep that up."

"What?"

Dean blinked. "Your hair," he said, his voice still not sounding like his own. "You been twisting it."

"Hell, Dean," Sam sighed, weaving his fingers together and leaning his head forward on his thumbs. "I was ready to pull it out."

"What… what happened?"

"We've been trying to get your fever down almost all night, man," Sam sighed, not lifting his head. "You never made it up the steps."

"Fever?"

Dean watched Sam nod into his hands. "I was gonna take you back to the hospital."

"Sam—"

"I didn't, okay?" Sam lifted his head, his tired eyes meeting Dean's. "I know what would have happened. But, Dean, nothing was working. You would have done the same thing."

Dean started to shake his head, but Sam's eyes stopped him.

"You would," Sam stated emphatically. "Even if it had meant risking prison, you'd have done it to save me."

"But…we're here," Dean said, swallowing, focusing on Sam, trying to remember.

Sam sighed, a sound that spoke of weariness and worry. "We're here because of Brenna."

"Hey, Dean," Brenna said from where she knelt at the foot of the bed.

He slowly shifted his eyes to look at her. He shivered when he saw her eyes, her druid eyes seeing so much… It was then that he realized he was lying nearly naked, clad in only a cool, wet sheet. He looked back at Sam, demanding with his eyes for his brother to understand.

"Hey, Brenna," Sam spoke up. "Can you give us a minute?"

Dean saw her nod out of the corner of his eye and she pushed herself to her feet, walking out of the room. He heard the sound of glass and porcelain being shoved aside, and something heavy clattering to the floor. In seconds, he heard the static, then the sound of music from Brenna's kitchen radio. Dean's eyes were burning. He rolled them closed, forcing his lids open and focused again on Sam.

"Sam," he said, his voice husky. "Tell me." His memory was a confused weave of situations real and imagined.

"You fell going up the steps, you remember?"

"I remember the steps," he said. And the dark. He remembered the dark.

"Brenna thinks you were still reacting to the… the wraith."

"Huh."

"Unless there's something you're not telling me," Sam said, dropping his chin and looking at Dean with calculating eyes. "Dean?"

"What?"

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

_Like what, Sam? There's a vacuum inside of me and it's going to pull me in and burn me up? Is that what you want to hear?_

"No, man, nothing," Dean shook his head. "Sam… can you get…" he gestured to the sheet draped across him.

"Oh, yeah, sure," Sam pushing himself to his feet. He grabbed a blanket from the other bed, held it under one arm, and pulled the sheet from Dean, dropping it in a pile on the floor. He set the blanket down next to Dean.

"I'll help you sit up and then you can get some clothes on. Ready?"

Dean nodded, reaching up and gripping Sam's wrist as Sam's long fingers wrapped around his. As Sam eased him up, his weaker, right hand behind Dean's shoulder leveraging him, Dean looked down and realized his ribs had been re-wrapped. He felt an odd warm sensation against his skin, under the wrap.

"She used that purple goo on my ribs, didn't she?"

Sam handed Dean some boxers. "She used everything she could think of, man."

Dean dropped the boxers on the floor and put his feet in the leg holes. He gingerly reached down and pulled them to his knees. Closing his eyes and forcing back his pride in an almost physical resistance he sighed. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I, uh…"

Sam looked down at him. "Oh."

He felt Sam's strong hand under his shoulder and gripped the waistband of the boxers. As Sam eased him to his feet, he pulled up the clothing. When they were settled on his hips, Sam helped him sit back on the bed, propped slightly against the headboard. He picked up the blanket and wrapped it around Dean's shoulders. Dean was trembling from that little exertion.

"Man, this sucks out loud," he muttered.

"Well, just take it easy," Sam said, sitting down on the side of the bed and running a weary hand through his long hair. "The last bit Brenna gave you had some kind of… something in it. You're gonna be feeling pretty damn good in a bit."

"Will it last?"

"Hell if I know," Sam muttered. "She was… I think you scared her, man." Sam glanced at Dean. "You sure as hell scared me."

"Scared her?" Dean said, letting Sam's last statement go for the moment. "I almost bled out in this room, and a little fever scared her?"

Sam shook his head. "It wasn't just a little fever, Dean. You were burning up. You were fading in front of us. And it… it was so _fast_. It wasn't normal… it was like… like something was taking you."

Dean pressed a hand to his sternum, remembering the feeling of the hollow inside, the feeling of the dark seeping over the grey. He shivered.

"You… wouldn't leave, though," Sam said softly, standing again to retrieve a blanket from the trunk at the foot of the other bed. "I saw it. I watched you fight."

"Hell, no, I wouldn't leave." Dean licked his bottom lip, pulling it in as he tried to adjust his position to ease the pressure on his ribs.

"For me, right?" Sam kept his eyes away, almost as if he was purposely avoiding Dean's gaze. He started to flip open the blanket.

"Well, yeah," Dean answered.

Sam held the blanket, then looked over at Dean. "Why not for you?"

"What?"

"Why wouldn't you stay… y'know, for you?"

"Aw, geeze, Sammy," Dean sighed, holding his side.

Sam flipped the blanket open and started to retort when Dean saw his eyes catch on a silver flask that flipped over and rolled out onto the bed between his legs. At first Dean thought it was his… he could see in Sam's quick glance back at him that he thought the same thing. Sam curled the blanket up under his arm and bent to retrieve the flask.

"Huh."

"What is it?" Dean asked, pulling the corners of the blanket on his shoulders closer around him.

"I think it's Declan's," Sam said, still looking at the flask in his hand.

"Why?"

"It says Ack..sru—"

"_Ach sruthóidh fuil na n-olc mar abhainn."_

They both looked up to see Brenna standing in the doorway, looking at Sam.

"I was gonna say that," Sam dead-panned. Dean looked at him, a half-grin on his face. Sam was looking back at Brenna.

"It means the blood of the wicked will flow like a river," she lifted a shoulder. "It's apparently something my father would say."

"Interesting…slogan," Sam looked back at the flask, then turned and stretched out his arm to hand it to Brenna.

She took it from him, rolling it over in her hands, looking at the tarnished silver. "You know the wicked in my father's eyes would pretty much be… well, us."

Sam looked at Dean. Dean met his eyes, then looked back at Brenna, fisting his hands in the blanket.

"What do you mean, _us_?" Sam asked.

"Anyone who defied the cause, _Sinn Fein_, freedom for our Irish brothers and all that," Brenna kept her eyes down, her thumb rubbing slowly over the silver. "He really believed he was doing something right… something good. He believed he was making the world a better place. He killed, and he funded death, and he frightened, and he did it all in the name of… of freedom."

Dean remained silent, watching her. He cared very little about her father's cause or why Declan had kept the flask. He cared even less about the IRA and the reasons behind their actions. But he found himself caring very much about erasing the heartbroken line from between Brenna's eyes. He shifted his eyes up to Sam. His brother was staring at her with a look of horror and sorrow spaced in even steps across his expressive face.

Sam had always been the empathetic one of their family, such as it was. He felt everything, and his feelings marched across his face with startling clarity. Sam had always been left alone to deal with his feelings – John never entertained the idea of feelings, and Dean had accepted that mantle as his own early in life. The first time he'd seen his father cry had been the day he'd died. The day he'd crushed Dean with words, and destroyed any hope he had for the possibility of having a family again.

"Declan always told me my father had been a hero in the eyes of many, but an enemy in the eyes of more," Brenna said, sniffing. She lifted her head and looked directly at Dean. "I wonder which he would have been to me."

"A hero," Dean said without thinking. He saw Sam pivot to face him.

"Yeah?" Brenna asked, searching for something, some piece of history, some vestige of family in his words.

Dean nodded. He kept his eyes on Brenna, but he addressed Sam. "You wouldn't have cared how bad he screwed up, or how many times, or how often you were alone… when he _was_ with you, life would be okay, and that's all that would have mattered to you."

Brenna nodded. "What am I gonna do about Declan?" she suddenly asked.

Dean lifted his eyes to Sam. His brother looked back with a look of sorrow, of regret, and of heartbreak. _I'm not all right… not even close…_

"Any ideas?" Dean asked.

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah, one." He looked at Dean, memories in his eyes.

"Think we can pull it off?" Dean asked.

"We've done it before… but, uh, _you_ aren't going," Sam's eyes snapped at him.

"I feel good, Sam," Dean said, not attempting to sit up, afraid a change in elevation would ruin the sudden euphoric feeling he was experiencing.

"That's the tonic," Brenna said. "It's supposed to dull the pain. It will fade in an hour or so, but if you're feeling like that, then it's healing you."

"Well, let's get it done in an hour, then," Dean said.

"Get what done?" Brenna asked.

"No way in hell, Dean."

"Sam, seriously, it's not a one-man job."

"It can be."

"Your shoulder's still hurt, Sam."

"What the hell are you two talking about?" Brenna's voice was irritated.

"Dean, you have no idea… you were on the edge, man. I saw it. I _saw_ it."

"I'm not there now, Sammy."

"Dean, please," Sam stepped forward, blocking Brenna from Dean's view, filling his line of sight. "_Please_, just trust me on this."

Dean looked at his brother's face, watched his eyes. There was strength there. Determination.

"You sure you can do this?"

"_Seriously_, tell me what is going on," Brenna's voice was hard.

"I'm sure."

"If we're gonna do this… if you're gonna do it, it has to be now."

"I know."

Dean sighed. "Those guys could be back anytime… "

"I know, Dean."

"They could get him first, use him…"

"I _know_, Dean."

"You _can't_ get caught, Sam."

"I'm not in the system," Sam argued.

"And we have to keep it that way," Dean said, rolling carefully to his side and leveraging himself up to a sitting position with his arm. He kept the blanket wrapped around him more out of awareness of Brenna than of cold. He felt strong, as if he'd never fought the wraith, never been trapped in the fire, never ran head first into a swinging bottle of whiskey.

"HEY!"

Dean's head snapped up and Sam pivoted to look. Brenna stood, her hands on her hips, her eyes hot.

"If you don't tell me what's going on right the hell now I swear to God I'm gonna—"

"I'm going to get Declan," Sam said quickly.

Brenna froze. Her eyes shifted from Sam to Dean, then back. Her arms dropped from her side and the flask slipped from her fingers to land with a dull thump beside Dean on the bed.

"I'm going with you."

"No." The finality in Sam's voice surprised even Dean. He beat Brenna's incredulous stare by a half-second.

He watched as Sam stepped forward and grasped Brenna's shoulders. She lifted her hands and grasped Sam's wrists in an automatic gesture of ground, of balance. Something in Dean's heart stirred at that. He felt a phantom memory of her hands on his arms, her nails digging in, her legs around him, her lips…

"I need you to take care of him," Sam was saying.

"He's okay for a bit," Brenna argued, shaking her head, the short, wild ends of her red-gold hair bouncing slightly with the movement.

"I can't risk that," Sam said. Dean saw Sam's fingers tightening on her shoulders. "You saw it, Brenna… you know how close it was… I need you to stay."

"Hey," Dean protested. "I'm okay. I'm fine."

They ignored him. Brenna stared at Sam, her throat working. "You'll bring him back?"

"I'll bring him back," Sam nodded. "But you have to take care of Dean… don't…" Sam dropped his head, then lifted his eyes. Dean watched his profile. "Don't let… whatever it is take over. Okay?"

"Sam," Dean said, his voice low. "What the hell, man?"

Sam continued to ignore him. "Brenna?"

"I won't," she promised. "But, I might have to –"

"Do what you have to do," Sam said. He let go of her shoulders. Dean heard music from the kitchen filter through the silence that suddenly filled the room in the wake of Sam's words.

"_And all the answers that I started with turned out questions in the end…"_

"Uh, Sam?"

Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean. Dean felt the look his brother gave him practically open him up. It was a look full of questions and promises at the same time.

"Just, uh… take care of yourself out there, okay?"

"Yeah, Dean. You know I will."

Dean swallowed as Sam turned away and started toward the door. "Sam."

Sam paused in the doorway and looked back at him, waiting.

"Just… make sure you come back." _This time…_

"I will. I promise," Sam said, then ducked out of the room.

The room once again fell silent. It felt emptier to Dean, without Sam. He held his breath, listening. He heard the Impala roar to life, then rev as Sam pulled out of the dirt lot toward the hospital. His brother was smart. And Sam had done stuff this dangerous before – just not this big. Not alone anyway. He lay back on his left side, his head dropping back against the pillow.

"This was a mistake."

Brenna dropped heavily down on the bed next to him.

"He'll… stop if it gets too dangerous… right?" She asked.

"He should," Dean said. "But he won't."

He thought through what Sam would have to do – get into the morgue, easy enough. Fake name, fake ID, fake smile. Get the right body. Again, fairly simple. Get the body out of the morgue – somewhat trickier, but it was easy enough to bluff with the right costume. White lab coat and Sam's innocent eyes ought to do it. Get to the right exit, get the body in the trunk… with one good arm.

"I'm gonna go after him," Dean started to push himself up, and Brenna put a hand on his arm.

"No you're not," she said. "You're staying here like he asked you to."

"Brenna, he could get caught," Dean protested, trying to figure out how to hold his ribs, sit up, and push her hand away all at once.

"Sam's a big boy, Dean. He knows what he's doing," she released her hand from his shoulder and cupped his elbow as the blanket fell back. "You taught him what he needs to know to do this." She eased him into a sitting position beside her.

"Supposed to be me out there, y'know," he muttered, letting the blanket fall off the other shoulder and pool on the bed at his waist. He rubbed his face. "He's the one who stays back and researches, makes sure of the right thing to do. I'm the one who barrels in with both guns blazing."

"You're here _because_ you barreled in with both guns blazing," Brenna said, staring at her hands. Her shoulder touched his.

"Huh?"

"What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"The wraith," Brenna said. She looked at him askance. "What did it feel like?"

_Like I was coming apart… like it was gutting me… like every pain I had ever had in my life came back and slammed me to the floor…_

"It, uh, hurt," Dean said, pulling his bottom lip in. He heard a commercial on the radio talk about a car sale on Sunday. He realized he didn't even know what day of the week it was. How had things gotten out of his control so fast? "What did Sam mean?"

"When he said…" Brenna prompted, shifting back and propping herself up on an arm to look over at him.

"When he said for you to do what you have to."

Brenna sighed and Dean shifted to look at her. He was aware that the movement caused very little pain. If he couldn't still see them, he would swear that the bruises had faded.

"Something happens when I touch you," she started. "When you're unconscious, as you seem to be a scary amount of time around me, and I touch you… we… connect."

"Oh yeah?"

"You can't… you don't remember?"

"I remember… light," Dean said, looking at the floor between his feet. "And your voice."

"I see things, and it… it hurts you," Brenna said. He felt her eyes on him.

"What kind of… things?" he asked, looking over at her.

Brenna glanced away, remembering. "I saw a woman with dark hair… I saw you against a wall and your chest was bleeding… I saw your Dad, only it wasn't your Dad…"

"So you see my memories?"

Brenna nodded. "But, I also saw something… something I don't understand."

Dean pulled his eyebrows together and tilted his head at her. "What do you mean?"

"It was like… a tangle of images and words and then… nothing."

"Okay, you may as well be speaking Gaelic because--"

"I saw you and Sam," she interrupted. "And John… and Sam and John were yelling about… leaving and wanting a future and you stepped in and pushed them apart. And then… I saw you and Sam in a hotel room and he was telling you that he was going back to school when it was over and you… you just looked empty."

Dean flinched, and looked down, twisting the silver ring on his right hand with the thumb and index finger of his left.

"I saw you two on the side of some road and Sam had a bag on his shoulder and he was walking away… I saw you in a hotel room sitting up in bed, calling to him… and that empty… look seemed to grow… and it was like… like you were…"

"Hollow," he supplied softly.

"Yeah," she said. "But at first all of those things were fractured, like… pieces of a jigsaw puzzle… and I have this feeling that I could see it all, I could see the real picture if I could find this one piece of the puzzle."

"Nice metaphor."

"It's an analogy."

"Whatever, Professor."

"It took that piece, didn't it, Dean? The wraith."

The music started up again, and Dean stayed silent. Brenna stared at him. He felt her gaze, but didn't look back at her.

"_Cause I don't think you ever understood that what I'm looking for are the answers to why these questions never go away…"_

"I know it did," she said when he remained silent.

"Well, why do you bother asking then, if you've got all the answers."

He knew he sounded bitter, but he didn't care. She was trying to see, trying to understand something that he kept hidden for a reason. He was comfortable behind his wall, where the only person that could ever scale or find a chink was Sam. He could deal with Sam. He'd been with Sam through almost everything his brother had experienced, with the exception of those years at Stanford. Sam knew him. Knew how to get to him, and knew how to let him be… Sometimes.

Brenna, though… She just saw. She had no filter. She had no history. She just… saw what he couldn't keep back, what he couldn't protect.

"Dean—" she started to reach for him, and he instinctively flinched away. "You don't have to be afraid of me," she said.

He shot a look at her. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Then why won't you let me touch you?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "Maybe I don't want you to get all tangled up in stuff you don't understand."

She sat back, dropping her hand in her lap. Her jaw tensed. "You were fine getting tangled up in me earlier."

"That was different."

"Yeah? How?"

"That was…" He was lost for how to continue. That night had been desperate. It had been need. It had been something for him that he hadn't let himself want in a long time. Sensation, satisfaction. It had been… right, at the time.

"It was good. And it was awful. And it confused me. And it made me see things very clearly," she said.

Dean sat back, rotating his neck. "Well, at least we got that cleared up."

"Dean," she started again. "You burn me up when you're near me, and you hurt me when you're gone and I never want to see you again, but I can't let you go."

"Damn, Brenna," he shook his head, closing his eyes. He was too tired and too much had happened. "You think what you see inside of _me_ is tangled up…"

"I know! I know," she took a breath. "I'm worried for you."

Dean reached for the blanket to cover himself, and started to push himself to his feet. "Well, don't be."

"Wait –" she grabbed his shoulder and halted him. He looked over at her. An unfamiliar chord of acoustic guitar sounded from outside the room.

"_I wanna be there when you call… I wanna catch you when you fall… I wanna be the one you need… I wanna be the one you breathe…"_

He looked at her, at her eyes, at her rosebud mouth, still bruised from Eamon's hand, at her cheekbones, her jaw line, then back to her eyes.

"What?" he whispered. He didn't want this… didn't want to want her. He was floating a bit, his limbs slightly weightless, his head spinning slightly. He felt buzzed, content. He felt… powerful. "What, Brenna? Tell me."

"I want to see…" she said and leaned forward.

He felt her pull, felt himself sway toward her. "God_dammit_," he whispered, and reached for her head, cupping her jaw with his palms and shoving his fingers into her short red-gold hair.

His mouth closed over hers and he breathed in as she did. He tasted her, felt the fullness of her bottom lip in between his, and shoved his tongue into her mouth, pulling a moan from the back of her throat. He leaned in, trying to get closer, trying to pull her closer, and suddenly his world exploded.

He saw himself standing on a ledge with literally nothing below him. No air, no light, no sound, no life… nothing. He tried to take a step back and he felt the same static-electricity shock that had come from the wraith at his back. He looked behind him and saw light. He saw Sam. He saw his dad. He saw home. He wanted to turn, but the static held a hand to his back and it took every ounce of his will to keep from tipping over the edge into the nothing.

He felt Brenna's hands pushing against his shoulders. He came back to himself and let her go. He was gasping for air, shaking. He looked at Brenna as she lifted a shaking hand to her lips.

"Did you see that?" he asked, his voice a weak version of his normal bravado.

"I'm sorry…" she gasped. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"So you did see."

"You're afraid it's going to swallow you up," she said in a weak voice.

"It is," he said, pushing away from her, wrapping the blanket back around himself. He wanted her to go away. He wanted to be alone. And yet, at the same time, he was afraid she'd leave.

"No, it doesn't have to," she said. "You just have to find that piece… you just have to…"

"Stop, Brenna," he said harshly. "I know why I'm here. I know why Dad… why he did what he did."

"What do you mean?"

"Sam. I'm here to save Sam."

"No, Dean, it's more… he did it for you…"

Dean lifted an eyebrow and looked over at her. "Oh? What happened to _he dumped that on me and left_? What happened to him _signing my death warrant_?" He looked at her, daring her with his eyes to deny the words she'd thrown at him.

She swallowed, but said nothing. Her eyes never left his face.

"Sam should be back soon," Dean said, dismissing her. "You got any idea where my clothes are?"

"Dean—" she tried again.

He silenced her with a look, his eyes cold, his jaw set.

"You should have more of the tonic… the effects will wear off soon," she said, standing.

"Whatever you say. You're the druid."

Dean took the clothes she handed him and let the blanket drop. He looked out the window. Still dark. He'd lost all sense of time, but he knew Sam was bound to be more successful under cover of darkness. He carefully pulled on the jeans, standing on somewhat shaky legs to adjust them over his boxers. He sat back down and pulled the shirt Brenna handed him over his head and started the slow task of putting his arms in the sleeves. She was right. The tonic was starting to wear off. He was beginning to feel the twinges of pain in his side and in his head that had been blessedly absent for the last hour.

"Here," Brenna said, coming back into the room with a mug of liquid.

Dean slowly pulled the black T-shirt over the bandages wrapping his ribs. He looked up at her and saw that her eyes were trained on the mug.

"Take it, Dean," she insisted. "You're gonna need it soon enough."

"What's in it?"

"Some herbs and stuff."

"Do you even know?"

"I know that out of all the things we tried to keep you with us, this was the only thing that worked."

She looked at him and he saw her pupils widen almost unconsciously.

"No," he said. He pushed himself to his feet. She took a step back. A young, desperate wail came from the music in the other room.

"_What if I wanted to fight, beg for the rest of my life, what would you do?"_

"No what?"

He took the mug from her and stepped forward. She took a step back. He set the mug on the top of the trunk at the foot of the bed.

"Close your eyes," he said softly. He wanted to know… he needed to know if the feelings she triggered were from her, for her… or if they were in response to her power.

"Why?"

"I just want to know," he said, low in his throat, stepping forward again. "I need to know if it's you."

She leaned in to him and he paused a moment before pressing his lips to hers. As he brushed her mouth with his, she breathed in, her eyes closed. He felt the tension as she held herself back, held the druid in, kept herself present. He held still, not touching her anywhere else, letting her capture his bottom lip in her teeth and pull him forward to her.

She felt familiar. He remembered the fascination of her touch, how unreal it had felt to have someone touch him… just touch him. He leaned into the softness of her mouth, knowing the stubble of his two-day growth of beard was scratching her smooth face. She reached up when she felt him start to pull away and captured the back of his neck, pressing his mouth harder on hers. He stumbled slightly forward, his hands grabbing for her waist, holding on.

He wanted more. He wanted to feel her, to hold her, to lose himself inside of her… but couldn't. He couldn't let go like that… not with Sam out there. Not with the job unfinished. Not while she was in danger.

He pulled away, taking a deliberate step back. Her lips were red and slightly swollen and her eyes were still closed. He stared at her as she stood still, pulling her lips into her mouth as if to hold his taste. He heard the Impala roar into the empty lot and felt his shoulders relax.

"He's back," he whispered. "Sam's back."

She opened her eyes and looked at him. "Guess you can breathe again," she said.

His eyebrows went up, surprised at her tone.

"The thing is, Dean…" she swallowed, reaching for the mug. "Sam's not the one that was missing from the place inside of you…"

She handed him the mug. He took it from her, keeping his eyes on her face.

"You were," she finished. She looked at him. "You have to figure out how to get that piece back, Dean. Or no amount of tonic is going to keep that hole from swallowing you up."

He stared at her. She blinked, then turned from him. He watched her walk from the room, through the chaotic kitchen and out the open front door. Not taking his eyes from her retreating form, he lifted the mug to his lips and took a drink. He immediately pulled his head back and away from the offending liquid.

"Gah," he grimaced. "Druids don't know about sugar?"

Sighing, he drained the mug, set it down on the trunk and cast about looking for his jacket. Not seeing it in the room, he figured Sam had taken it to the Impala. With Brenna's druid tonic humming through his system, he knew he'd be good to help with what they would have to do for Declan. Burning the body was the only way to erase the evidence enough that the authorities wouldn't come after Brenna once they were gone. Sam would need help getting the wood.

Pressing one hand to his right side, he rubbed the other gingerly through his hair, feeling the wound sutured at the back of his head, then running his hands around to the side to feel the stitches there. He closed his eyes. All Sam had wanted to do after Gordon was arrested was look for Ava. It was the only thing he'd asked of Dean, his only focus. Dean couldn't help but wonder if they'd stuck to that, if they'd listened to Declan's plea to _not send the boys_ if they would be in one piece still. He grimaced thinking of the wound in Sam's shoulder and how getting the body from the morgue had to have caused him some pain.

He opened his eyes and looked around the small room. It smelled like sage and some unknown scent that he associated with relief. It smelled like Brenna. He pulled his bottom lip in and caught it between his teeth. She was getting to him. And he couldn't let that happen. Not now.

He left the small room and walked through the debris to the front door. Stepping out of the house, he realized that it had to be just before dawn. The night was oppressively dark, the starts silent. It was as if the world were holding its collective breath, waiting for the first beams of sun to crest the horizon. They had almost made it through another night. Almost.

He had just reached the bottom step of the porch when he noticed the car. A black Buick, large enough for several people. Approaching the bar, he cast his memory back quickly; he couldn't recall hearing another car before or after hearing the Impala return. When had it gotten there and how had he not noticed? He did a quick scan of the lot. Brenna's totaled Grande National and the Impala were the only other vehicles. He heard a crash of glass from inside the bar. His hand immediately went to his back waistband before he remembered that he didn't have a gun or his knife. He started to turn back when he heard a voice cry out in pain. Sam's voice.

His gut turned to ice and he hurried forward. He turned the handle of the front door of the bar, fully expecting it to open. He was surprised when he bounced painfully off of the locked door. He heard Sam's muffled curse, and his jaw flexed tight. Taking a step back, he raised his foot and with one well-placed kick, the door flew in, splinters scattering from around the lock.

He stepped through the door, eyes darting, searching for Sam. It didn't take him long to find him.

Eamon and his sons stood inside, each evenly spaced across the front of the bar, each dressed in black, each holding a gun. Sam was on his knees, blood running from his nose and mouth, his eyes at half-mast, obviously barely conscious. Dean saw red. He moved forward, not thinking about anything but beating senseless the man holding Sam's head back by a fistful of hair.

"And here you are, finally," said Eamon, stopping Dean's advance. "We didn't realize we'd have so long to work over your… brother, here."

Eamon nodded at the one – Dean saw now that it was James – holding Sam and he stepped back, releasing Sam's hair. Sam immediately fell forward, crumpling to a heap on the floor at James' feet.

"Sammy," Dean breathed.

"You could have made this so easy," Eamon tisked, shaking his head. "You chose… poorly."

He nodded again, and Dean saw Liam and Danny haul a struggling Brenna out between them. She was gagged, but Dean could see that she'd been hit, and roughly. Her right eye was raising a bruise and there was a cut on her head that was bleeding. His eyes raked quickly over her clothes, and while they seemed disheveled, they didn't seem as out of place as they would be if…

"You weren't even supposed to be here," Eamon sighed. "Declan was simply supposed to summon the wraith, retrieve the Ardagh, and banish it. Easy as that."

"When's the last time you banished a wraith, old man?" Dean bit off his words.

His eyes darted from Sam to Eamon. He felt anger war with panic and struggle against dread inside of him. He had nothing but his fists and his will to get them out of this situation, and he knew the rush of strength he was feeling now wouldn't last long.

"Well, from the looks of you," Eamon lifted a thin eyebrow and ran his eyes over Dean's hands, arms, and face. "It's not as easy as we thought. Perhaps Declan wasn't up to the challenge. More's the pity."

Brenna struggled and screamed muffled curses at him through her gag. Dean cut his eyes to her and tried to quiet her with a look. She wasn't interested. She kicked out, connecting with Liam, who dropped her arm. She pushed against Danny, working to pull her other arm free.

"Enough, Danny," Eamon said in a low voice. Dean's heart stopped.

Danny backhanded Brenna and she went limp in his grasp. Dean breathed again. Danny dropped Brenna to the floor and Dean saw she landed close to Sam. He looked over at Eamon.

"Way to go, Pops," he shook his head. "She's the only one who knows where your little goblet of fire is."

"I highly doubt that," Eamon said, taking a step toward Sam's prone form.

In that moment, Dean heard a quick series of pops followed by a low, muffled explosion. Eamon froze. Dean looked over his shoulder, and out of the nearest window. Orange flames danced across the darkness from Brenna's house. _Shit_…

He heard the slam of a car trunk, and the ominous tread of a heavy step on the dirt lot outside. He waited. The figure of a man filled the open doorway. Dean lifted an eyebrow, rotating and taking a step back to get a look at him.

"Jack," Eamon breathed, something close to horror in his voice.

"Ah, so this is the bad-ass," Dean muttered.

Jack stepped into the room and Dean finally saw him. "Holy shit," he breathed. "You."

"Well, if it isn't Johnny's kid," Jack said, a sneer on his scarred face.

He was tall. Taller than Dean remembered. And he'd been thirteen, then. Jack's right eye was a vibrant blue, but his left was chalky white with cataracts and scarring. A thin red line ran from his hairline, through his eyebrow and eye, down his left cheek.

"Didn't think I'd been seeing you again, kid," Jack commented. "Told Declan to bring John."

"He couldn't make it," Dean snapped at him.

"Just as well," Jack stepped closer to Dean. "You're the one I've wanted to…_talk_ to for the last fifteen years."

"Here I am."

Abbreviated flashes of memory shot across Dean's mind. John telling him to wait in the car, acting strange, acting scared. Sam asleep in the back seat. Sneaking out of the car to follow his Dad when it had been too long. Seeing a man hold his Dad to a wall by the throat. Grabbing the first weapon he could find – a bowie knife – and rushing the man, stabbing him in the arm. Hitting the floor when the man's arm crashed across his face. Slicing the man's face in a desperate move to escape.

"Jack," Eamon spoke up. "The Ardagh."

"Enough," Jack snapped. "You are a fool who sent a bigger fool after the one thing I said we had to have… the one thing, Eamon."

"Hey, we got the spells, didn't we?" Mick spoke up from behind Eamon. "You couldn't have done that without us."

"Not only that," Jack continued as if Mick hadn't spoken, turning from Dean to face Eamon. "You let yourselves get beat by two demon hunters from Kansas."

Jack pulled out a 9mm, slowly twisting a silencer on the end. Dean stepped back so that he stood next to Sam, his leg against Sam's side. He felt Sam stir slightly and resisted the urge to bend down and check on him. He kept his eyes on Jack, his head spinning as his past twisted with his present.

"These are failures that can't keep happening," Jack said, sighing as if in disappointment. Dean's eyes darted from Jack to Eamon. He tensed, bent slightly in a fighter's stance, waiting, watching.

Jack very calmly lifted his gun and fired. Dean's eyes shot to Eamon and he jumped slightly when he saw Mick collapse. He blinked, looking at Eamon. The blood had drained from the older man's face, but he didn't move.

"Now, Johnny's kid," Jack said, turning to face Dean. "Let's just get this business over with and we can catch up." He raised the gun and pointed it at Dean's forehead. "Where's the Ardagh?"

"You got me," Dean said, focusing on Jack's ruined face and not the barrel of the gun between his eyes.

Another muffled explosion came from the burning house. Dean closed his eyes briefly, trying to remember if their duffel of weapons was still inside, and wondering what Brenna's potions would do when burned. He opened his eyes, staring again at Jack.

"Where is it?" Jack repeated, pressing the barrel of the gun tight against Dean's forehead.

"I already told you," Dean said, keeping his voice calm. "I don't know."

Jack took a step back, folded his arms, and tilted his head to the side. "See, I believe you do."

"Believe what you want," Dean said, narrowing his eyes at Jack. "Doesn't mean it's true."

Sam shifted against Dean's leg again. Jack saw the movement. He stepped forward and Dean immediately sidestepped and blocked his path. Jack grinned.

"Kid, everyone in this room can see you're practically dead on your feet. You aren't going to stop me from getting to him."

"Maybe not," Dean said. "But I'll damn well try."

Jack lifted the gun again, but this time as a club. Dean instinctively lifted his arm and the blow missed his head, glancing off his bruised forearm. He winced, but used the opening Jack provided with his swing to jab a quick right into Jack's nose. The big man staggered back, holding his now bleeding nose, and lowered the gun once more toward Sam. Dean stepped into the path of the gun.

"I can do this all day," he challenged the bleeding man.

"Well," Jack said. "I bore easily."

He moved fast for a big man. Dean barely registered that he'd released the hammer on the gun before Jack had him by the front of his shirt and was rushing him back, away from Sam, and slammed him against a support column to the left of the bar. Dean's teeth shook, his world rattled, his ribs screamed, and the air left his lungs.

"You ready for more, kid?" Jack said, releasing Dean's shirt and wiping the back of his hand across his bleeding nose.

Dean couldn't keep his legs under him. He slid to the ground, landing with a thud at the base of the column.

"Or are you ready to try something new?" Jack took two long strides and was next to Sam.

Dean blinked, furiously working to stay conscious. Jack grabbed the back of Sam's shirt and with a heave, hauled Sam up and to his knees. Sam's eyes opened wide and he looked directly at Dean. Jack reached into his back pocket and pulled out a knife with a long, slender, deadly blade. Shifting his grip from Sam's shirt to his hair, he roughly pulled Sam's head back and began to draw the blade slowly across Sam's throat.

"No!" Dean cried out.

But a crimson line had begun to appear.

www

_a/n:_

_Music:_

"_Good Times, Bad Times" by Led Zeppelin. For Intex._

"_Gravity" by Styx_

"_So Far Away" by Crossfade. For Tree._

"_Fade Away" by Seether_

"_The Kill" by 30 Seconds to Mars_

_Translations:_

_Ach sruthóidh fuil na n-olc mar abhainn. The blood of the wicked will flow like a river._


	7. Chapter 7

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1 _

_a/n: Thank you again so much for taking time to review. It means more to me than you'll know. Slight warning for more language than usual in this chapter. _

_This chapter once again reflects back to events that occurred in "Within My Hands." Those of you who've read that will see the moment clearly. Those who haven't – no worries, this story isn't dependent on that one. A special thanks to sojourner84 for a meeting of the minds, so to speak. _

_Special thanks to Kelly for having my back. I mean it when I said I wouldn't want to write fanfic without you._

_E –_ _In my friend, I find a second self. (Isabel Norton)_

_www_

_You can't have a light without a dark to put it in. – Arlo Guthrie_

Into the Fire – Chapter 7

The peaceful, black silence that had stopped the thrumming pain was interrupted by the feel of someone pushing against his side. Sam felt the nudge, felt his body rock slightly with the pressure and tried to burrow back into the soft darkness that had been keeping him safe.

The muffled pop of the silenced gunshot brought him one more level toward awareness. He wanted to groan but instinct told him to keep quiet, keep still. He realized his face was buried in the crook of one arm. He worked to blink his eyes, to pull himself awake.

"Now, Johnny's kid," Sam heard. The voice was unfamiliar, gruff, and sounded a bit like Eamon's. "Let's just get this business over with and we can catch up." Sam heard the unmistakable sound of the hammer on a gun being pulled back. He kept still, pulling his eyebrows together, trying to place the voice, trying to figure out why everything in him screamed to _stay down, hold still_. "Where's the Ardagh?"

"You got me." Oh, God, that was Dean. He remembered now. Dean had come in… had kicked the door in and appeared like an avenging angel, his eyes hot, his face battered. It was the last thing Sam remembered seeing. It was Dean's leg against him, he realized.

Sam heard what sounded like an explosion muted by distance. He didn't recognize it, but… but he could smell fire. Something nearby was burning.

"Where is it?" the gruff Irish voice repeated.

"I already told you," Dean's voice was empty, calm. Sam had heard the same tone before: when Dean was challenging the demon back at the cabin. "I don't know."

"See, I believe you do."

"Believe what you want. Doesn't mean it's true."

Sam shifted against Dean's leg, trying with that small amount of pressure to let his brother know he was awake, he was aware, he was listening. He felt Dean's leg move away from his side and he sensed his brother standing directly in front of him.

"Kid, everyone in this room can see you're practically dead on your feet. You aren't going to stop me from getting to him."

"Maybe not," Dean said. "But I'll damn well try."

Sam heard Dean pull in a breath, then grunt in pain. He heard flesh hitting flesh and the voice he didn't recognize spat out a muffled curse.

"I can do this all day," Dean's voice taunted.

"Well, I bore easily."

Sam opened his eyes, staring at the dark in the hollow of his arm. He'd heard death in the stranger's tone. Before he was able to lift his head, to move, to do more than open his eyes and take a breath, he felt a rush of air as his brother was propelled away from him. He heard Dean's body hit something unrelenting, heard the air leave Dean's lungs in a painful rush.

"You ready for more, kid?"

Sam heard something hit the floor. He tensed, starting to push himself up, completely aware, worried for Dean, ready to grab the man whose voice he didn't know and get him away from his brother.

"Or are you ready to try something new?"

The hand was on the back of his shirt before he knew what was happening. He was hauled up with a force of strength that surprised him. He realized he was facing Dean. His brother was slumped at the base of the support column, his legs folded under him, his eyes glazed, blinking wide in what Sam recognized as an effort to stay conscious. He was staring in horror at the man behind Sam who had suddenly shifted his grip from Sam's shirt to his hair and yanked his head back viciously.

Sam gritted his teeth as the unmistakable feel of cold, sharp steel met his skin and the sting of the blade began to pull across his exposed neck.

"No!" Dean cried out.

Sam knew that any movement on his part could potentially plunge the knife deeper, but there is a moment when training and logic are trumped by the instinct to survive. He reached up and grabbed at the arm holding his head. When the man only gripped his hair tighter, he clawed at the hand holding the knife. The hand paused.

"Where is it?" the man holding the knife growled at Dean. "Tell me or your brother gets a new smile."

"I don't _know_ where the fuckin' thing is," Dean yelled back, his voice hard and tinged with panic. "Your boys there knocked out the only person who does."

Sam's eyes shot to Dean, then down to Brenna lying on her side, her face bruised and bleeding, unconscious. He looked back at Dean and saw a look in his brother's eyes that frightened him almost more than the knife still pressed against his bleeding neck. Dean looked like a caged, wild animal who was two seconds from pouncing on his captor.

"You think of asking her before you beat her up, Eamon?" the man holding the knife shot over his shoulder.

Sam suddenly realized that he hadn't heard Eamon or any of his sons since awareness had returned. They had been sudden and brutal in their attack when he'd entered the bar for supplies to take care of Declan. But they were silent now.

"Hey," the man with the knife barked. "I'm talking to you."

"You killed him, Jack," Sam heard Eamon say in a low, strange voice.

_Jack…_Sam realized. The voice… the man holding a knife at his throat was Jack Collins. He looked back at Dean, but his brother was staring at Jack, the dangerous look in his eyes amplified by the bruising around his face.

"I shot him," Jack snapped. "I better have killed him. Did. You. Ask. Her."

Sam tightened his grip on Jack's arm and was rewarded by a sharp jab as the knife pressed closer.

"Don't do it, kid," Jack's voice was in his ear, his hot breath across Sam's skin. "The only reason you're still alive is to keep that brother of yours on a short leash."

Sam tried to swallow and almost choked as his Adam's apple bobbed against the blade.

"Eamon!" Jack barked.

"You didn't have to kill him, Jack," Eamon replied.

The tone in Eamon's voice sent a chill down Sam's spine. It was devastation crossed with betrayal and shot through with insanity. Sam looked back to Dean, trying to catch his brother's eyes, but he saw that Dean was too far gone, too close to attacking to think to look at Sam.

"If I didn't have to, I wouldn't have done it," Jack snapped, and Sam felt him straighten, his body twisting slightly away. "Answer the fuckin' question!"

Sam knew this was the opening Dean had been waiting for. He closed his eyes, listening for his brother's feet to shift, his breathing to change. He heard Dean pull in air as he pushed himself to his feet, heard the four soft, rapid steps Dean took to approach, and opened his eyes just as the burst of air from Dean's swing rushed past his face. At the exact moment Dean attacked, Sam gripped Jack's arm, pulling the knife from his neck with every ounce of strength he possessed.

He felt the tip stab in, then fall away. He grabbed his bleeding neck and dropped forward, rolled to his back, and looked up. Dean never stopped moving. He knocked Jack off balance with the first blow -- a sharp right to the chin. The minute Sam was free, Dean pushed forward, swinging with strength Sam didn't know how he had – wasn't sure he _should _have.

"Not while I'm around…" Dean was growling through clenched teeth between swings.

Sam lay gasping, watching Dean, holding his neck and feeling the blood seep between his fingers. Jack stumbled back in honest surprise as Dean jabbed up with his left, then immediately caught Jack on the chin again with his right forearm. Dean had landed four good blows before Jack recovered his wits. As Sam gaped, Jack thrust out his right hand in a powerful block, sending Dean stumbling backwards, crashing into Sam with a cry of pain as his wounded ribs connected with Sam's leg.

Keeping his hand tight against his neck, Sam grabbed for Dean, trying to pull him close, pull him away from Jack.

"Eamon, goddammit, focus!" Jack shouted over his shoulder.

"He was my son," Eamon said.

Sam searched the shadowed bar until he saw Eamon kneeling beside the body of Mick. He looked quickly to the other figures, feeling Dean next to him as he struggled to his knees. Liam and Danny stood next to Mick's body, staring at their dead brother in shock. Liam's gun hung limply from his hand, his shoulders were slumped. James, however, was staring at Jack and almost vibrating with rage.

"He was a soldier," Jack snapped, turning fully to face Eamon, his back to Dean and Sam. "And soldier's die."

"We have done every fuckin' thing you asked, man," James growled. "He _worshiped_ you."

Jack tossed his head back. "Well, then as his god, it was my place to take his life."

Eamon pushed himself to his feet with a feral growl. "He was my son," he repeated.

"You forget why we're here?" Jack shouted.

Sam was starting to feel slightly lightheaded trying to follow the argument. He blinked. His vision blurred as his eyes danced from Jack to James to Eamon, and then suddenly Dean was directly in front of him. His hazel eyes glowing green with purpose, Dean stared hard at Sam for a brief moment, then fisted his hands in Sam's shirt, pulling him to his feet in a low crouch. Sam's head spun as Dean ducked under one of his arms and he leaned heavily on Dean as he awkwardly moved them around the end of the bar and sat them down in the shadowed corner.

Above them, on the other side of the bar, the fight continued.

"No, Jack," Eamon was saying, his voice cold, dead. "You _don't _have to remind me. It has been our cause since you ordered us to come to this God forsaken town."

"Then why the hell are we standing around talking about it?" Jack snapped and Sam heard the hammer of a gun pull back.

Dean took Sam's face in his hands, gingerly turning it to the left so that he could see Sam's neck. Sam watched him wince.

"Never a petticoat around when you need it," Dean muttered. "Keep your hand on that, Sam."

Sam blinked his understanding, keeping his eyes on Dean's face.

"He knows you…" Sam rasped out.

"Don't try to talk," Dean commanded.

Dean's brows were pulled together in a frown, his mouth tight, and a muscle in his jaw kept up a steady cadence of worry. As Sam watched, Dean pulled up the base of his black T-shirt, exposing his bruised torso and the wraps that bound his ribs. Sam realized what he was doing one moment too late.

"Dean, wait—" Sam tried, but Dean had already started to unwrap a section of his ribs.

Sam held still, pressing his hand hard into the wound on his neck, watching as Dean cast his eyes quickly around the floor of the bar and grasped a piece of a broken bottle to cut the binding away. The loose end began to slowly unravel from around his damaged ribs, but Dean didn't seem to notice. He leaned forward, rolling the end of the bandage into a thick ball, then quickly placed it over the wound on Sam's neck once Sam dropped his fingers. He wrapped the tail end of the makeshift bandaged tightly around Sam's throat, splitting the end and tying it off.

"Pop, don't," James was saying. "We're on the same side, here, right? I mean… we are, right?"

"Do you care _nothing_ for the life of your brother?"

"'Course I do, Pop, let's just… just take it easy here."

"I'd listen to him, old man," Jack spat out. "All that should matter to you is getting that damn chalice and getting the hell out of here."

"You will _not _put this on me," Eamon growled. "If that had been _your_ sole focus, we would not be in this situation."

Dean was tipping Sam's head to the side, ignoring the rapid turn of events above them, his eyes on Sam. Sam watched him grimace as he looked at the marks left by James' fists.

"Gonna kill them," Dean muttered.

"Dean—" Sam tried again.

"Don't talk, Sam."

"Brenna," Sam got out.

"I haven't forgotten her," Dean whispered, darting his eyes up.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jack was yelling. "The Ardagh—"

"Was not your only purpose," Eamon spat. "You were looking for revenge."

"That has nothing to do with you," Jack said in a low, dangerous voice.

"It does now," Eamon answered. "Your revenge killed my son."

"You stay here, Sam," Dean said, his hand on Sam's chin, drawing his attention. "You hear me?"

"Where're you going?" Sam whispered, wincing slightly.

"Just stay here," Dean repeated, letting go of Sam's face. "I'll be right back."

As Sam watched, his left hand pressed against the ache in his neck, his right arm held close to his side, Dean scooted around the edge of the bar, moving as if he were whole, as if he had never been broken. Sam blinked. Dean had been like that since Sam could remember. Unless he were nearly dead or unconscious – which he'd been more times than Sam wanted to think about – Dean somehow managed to compartmentalize his pain, pushing it away to get the job done.

Sam kept his eyes on Dean as his brother leaned across the empty space to grasp Brenna's ankle. Neither of them realized when the argument above them quieted. Sam watched in horror as Jack's powerful hands grabbed Dean by the shirtfront, hauling him roughly to his feet, and with a guttural roar of fury, turned Dean and slammed him face-first into the wall that ran behind the bar. Dean's eyes closed tightly and Sam watched him bite back a cry of pain.

Jack pulled Dean away from the wall, turned him again and propelled them both out of Sam's line of sight. Sam heard the impact of his brother's body against another wall and this time Dean cried out.

"Ah, son of a _bitch_!"

Sam crawled quickly to the edge of the bar, reaching for Brenna's ankle, thinking furiously about how to get them out of this situation. As he pulled Brenna's limp form toward him and to the protection behind the bar, he heard Jack literally spitting at Dean:

"Declan couldn't do _one_ thing right… all he had to do was get John to banish the wraith… couldn't resist a fight, that Johnny, and the stupid bastard couldn't even get that right…"

Sam heard Dean's body hit the wall again, and this time the sound that emanated from his brother gripped his heart. Sam carefully propped Brenna behind the bar, checking to make sure her pulse was strong, then ducked around the bar again. He saw Dean reach up and grab the front of Jack's shirt, his eyes hot with anger, his face pulled into a fierce frown. Sam blinked his blurry vision back into focus.

"What's the matter, Jack?" Dean gritted out through clenched teeth, the man's name sounding like a curse in his voice. "Things not working out the way you planned?"

Sam saw Jack's arms tense and his stomach clenched as Dean hit the wall once more. Sam shot his eyes over to the left of the bar and saw that James and Eamon simply stood and watched – not helping or hindering Jack in his attack on Dean. Liam hadn't moved from his post next to Mick. Danny had stepped forward, but had apparently been stopped by James' hand.

"Shut the fuck up, kid," Jack yelled, pulling Dean to him, hands fisted in Dean's T-shirt. Sam could see from his vantage point that the only thing keeping Dean vertical at the moment were Jack's hands. "Your dad's gonna live to regret sending you."

Dean's eyes flashed once. "I wouldn't be so sure about that," he growled, digging up strength from somewhere inside and shoving back at Jack as hard as he could. Jack stumbled back, but didn't release Dean.

Shaking his head in either frustration or wonder, Sam couldn't tell, Jack put an extra thrust in his step as he slammed Dean against the wall again. Sam winced as he saw the back of Dean's head hit the wall. Dean's eyes rolled once and Sam held his breath, watching for his moment. He tensed, scooting around the side of the bar so that he was completely exposed to Dean. Sam was staring so hard at his brother's face, he seemed to will Dean's gaze to him. Dean's green eyes met his and he shook his head once. _Don't move, stay still. _Sam pulled his eyebrows together, his head darting forward in a quick denial, but Dean's eyes immediately drained of emotion and he looked back at Jack.

"You think you know what happened that night, don't you, kid?" Jack was saying.

Sam held his breath, recalling Jack's familiarity with Dean, wondering how it was possible that this man, this enemy of the Kavanaghs, this man who was responsible for the death of Brenna's parents, somehow also had a connection to the Winchesters.

"You got no idea what you walked in on," Jack continued.

"I think I have a pretty good idea," Dean growled. "You were trying to kill my Dad."

"Your old man killed my brother," Jack threw at him.

"No possible way," Sam heard the sharp anger in Dean's voice. As he watched, Dean's mask slipped, exposing a brief visual of betrayal, then it slid quickly back into place.

"Easy job he said," Jack was twisting his fists into Dean's shirt. "Say a few words, poof, no more wraith."

Sam darted his eyes from Jack and Dean to Eamon and James. They stood still, watching the scene unfold. Keeping his eyes on them, Sam reached for a piece of broken glass and carefully wrapped his fingers around it.

"But he wasn't fast enough, your Dad. And the wraith took my brother," Jack shook Dean once.

"Sounds like the wraith killed your brother then, Cyclops," Dean snarled, his arms tensing as he tightened his grip on Jack's shirt.

Sam fastened his eyes on his brother's face. Dean's eyes darted quickly back and forth, directed at Jack's face, but Sam had watched his brother long enough to know that Dean wasn't seeing Jack. He was searching his memory, searching the past for some kernel of recognition, something to tell him what Jack was saying was false.

"You ever watch someone lose his soul, kid?"

"Got a pretty good idea what it looks like," Dean ground out, shifting against the grip on his shirt, working to unbalance Jack's grip.

"It sure ain't pretty," Jack said, leaning close to Dean. Sam tensed. "The way he screamed… he sounded like his body was being turned inside out."

Sam swallowed looking at Dean's face, thinking of Dean going through that pain and still managing to banish the creature. A series of short explosions sounded from what Sam now realized was Brenna's house as the fire continued to consume. Sam was glad he'd thought to move their weapons to the Impala before he'd gone after Declan's body. He wondered what Brenna's potions would do when burned.

Jack shot a look over at Eamon, then back to Dean. "So when our cause needed a boost, Eamon here discovers the Ardagh, only there's a problem, see… it's being guarded by a wraith. And who did I know that could banish a wraith, huh?"

"And using an alcoholic bartender to summon it was your master plan?" Dean scoffed. "No wonder your brother didn't make it."

Sam bit his lip, wincing at the retaliation he anticipated for that remark. Jack tilted his head to the side, as if sizing Dean up.

"You know your old man had a shot at me that night."

Dean remained silent.

"You didn't know did you?" Jack chuckled coldly. "You thought you were Rambo, getting the big, bad man away from your daddy," Jack sneered. "Cut me good, too. But I got you back, didn't I? And your dad just watched it happen."

Sam swallowed, working to remember. The name Jack Collins meant nothing to him… and he couldn't recall his dad battling a wraith before…

"You distracted me," Jack was saying. "Let Johnny get the drop on me. But he didn't have the sac to finish it. I'm surprised you don't remember." Jack tilted his head, regarding Dean coolly. "Guess you were too busy bleeding. John let you lie there, blinking like a landed fish, and he waits. He just waits," Jack shook his head. "I was ready to end you both, and he can't pull the fuckin' trigger, not even to save you."

"So you're pissed because he let you live?" Dean lifted an eyebrow, his jaw muscle jumping once, his eyes half-cast as he hid his memories from Jack.

"He didn't _let_ me do anything," Jack growled. "He was afraid."

"He was human," Dean shot back, twisting his hands in Jack's shirt front. "Which is not really a problem of mine."

"Don't make me laugh, kid," Jack shook his head. "I could knock you over with a sneeze."

"With that breath, yeah, pretty sure you could," Dean said.

"Doesn't matter now, anyway," Jack grumbled, looking back over at Eamon. "Declan got himself killed, apparently _you_," he looked back at Dean, "managed to banish the wraith… and these fools can't find the damned chalice."

Dean remained silent. Sam watched him blink, willing him to keep resisting, to not give in to the pain Sam was sure he had to be feeling. Sam could see the loose bandages from Dean's ribs slipping out from the bottom of his T-shirt. Jack must have thought Sam was dead or unconscious because his whole focus was on Dean.

"But according to you, Declan's girl knows where it is," Jack continued. "Which means," he let go of Dean with one hand, leaning more of his weight onto the other to keep Dean pinned to the wall. "I don't really have much use for you anymore."

Jack reached into his back pocket and pulled out the slim blade that was now tinged red with Sam's blood. Sam swallowed, his eyes darting quickly to Dean.

"Plus, as an added bonus," Jack swung the knife around with his right arm and Sam watched Dean's eyes widen and his hands shift from Jack's shirt to his arm, holding him off, trying to push him away. "I'll get to hand your body to your dad." He pushed against Dean's outstretched hands, forcing the knife closer to Dean's chest. "Couldn't ask for better revenge than that," he ground out.

"No!" Sam shot to his feet, swaying slightly as his vision caught up with the change of elevation.

He focused on Jack holding Dean against the wall, the knife creeping closer to Dean's chest as his brother's arms began to shake.

"Dean!"

"Sam, stay back," Dean's voice was low, shaking with pain and exertion.

Sam stepped forward, raising the piece of broken glass as he advanced, but was caught across the chest by James. Suddenly coming alive, James pulled Sam roughly back and slammed his back against the bar, knocking the glass from his hand and holding him there with his forearm. Sam shook his head, working to blink away the cobwebs at the edge of his vision. He pushed against James, but blood loss, exhaustion, and his wounded arm were working against him.

He shot his eyes over to Dean and saw that Jack had shifted his left hand from Dean's shirt to his throat and was pressing Dean into the wall with that grip. Dean's arms were trembling violently against the thrust of the knife, his face pulled into a grimace of pain and Sam could see him fighting for even one breath.

Sam struggled against James' arm. "Let me go, man," he yelled.

James simply shook his head.

"He killed your brother," Sam said, locking desperate eyes with James' dead ones. "Let me try to save mine!"

James shook his head again and as Sam looked back at Dean he realized that Jack had been right about one thing. James was a soldier. And he was conditioned to save Jack. He could do nothing else. Dean's grip continued to loosen and Sam watched in horror as his brother's arms began to drop and the knife started to dig into his shoulder.

Dean grit his teeth, but a cry of pain worked its way past his defenses. "Ahhhh—"

Jack's grip tightened around Dean's throat, effectively cutting off his air, and Sam saw Dean's arms visibly weaken. Sam saw Jack take a breath and knew he was going to plunge the knife into Dean to the hilt. He pushed against James, struggling, kicking, fighting, but his weakened body was no match for James' stony resistance. Pushing against James with his waning strength he lifted his eyes to Dean. Dean's arms fell limply to his sides and his eyelashes fluttered. Sam knew in that moment that he was watching his brother die.

The explosion of pain in his head was sudden and vicious and oddly familiar. It was a hot spike of power behind his eyes and he cried out, grabbing his forehead. He shut his eyes as the thrust of movement rolled from him. His body trembled once and he opened his eyes.

As if in slow motion, he saw James flying away from him into Jack, knocking him off balance and crashing both of them into the wall with brutal force. Gasping, he shot his eyes over to Dean and watched as Dean's eyes rolled back into his head as he slid slowly sideways down the wall to land with a thud on his left side, blood running from the wound in his shoulder.

Sam's legs refused to hold him up. He sank to the ground, pressing the heel of his hand to his right eyebrow, his eyes on Dean's still form across from him, trying to see if his brother was even still breathing, if he'd been in time. He jerked in surprise at the roar that came from the pile of tangled limbs that was Jack and James. He looked over and saw Jack rise up with a look of blind rage in his eyes. Jack raised his knife and before James had a chance to lift his arms in defense, he stabbed it into the base of James' throat.

Sam blinked in shocked surprise at the seemingly senseless act of violence. He began to pull himself across the floor away from the bar and toward Dean. Jack sat back, a maniacal gleam in his eyes as James grabbed for his throat in denial. The gurgle of blood that blossomed from his lips told Sam that in minutes, James would be gone. Eamon realized the same thing. He stumbled over from his post next to Mick with a shout of anguish.

"James!"

Sam continued to crawl slowly over to Dean, his head thrumming a steady beat of pain. Eamon knelt next to James, his hands hovering helplessly over the bloody knife wound as James' mouth opened and closed soundlessly. As Sam reached Dean, James gasped out his last breath. Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's arm, pulling himself close, and leaning over Dean's limp form.

"He attacked me!" Jack screamed at Eamon. "What was I supposed to do?"

Sam turned his back to them, his forehead on Dean's shoulder, his body covering Dean's broken chest, his arms reaching out to wrap around Dean's arms. His right hand met the sticky wetness of the knife wound in Dean's shoulder and he closed his eyes. He could feel Dean breathing weakly beneath him.

"_Ni dhoirtfear fuil neamhchiontach choiche. Ach sruthoidh fuil na n-olc mar abhainn,"_ Eamon's voice was low, deadly.

A small, cool hand touched Sam's over Dean's wounded shoulder and he lifted his head. Brenna was next to him. She'd crawled out from behind the bar unnoticed in the chaos. Bruises flanked her eye and mouth, and a cut on her forehead left a trail of blood down the side of her face. Her eyes were large and the look in them heartbreakingly sad. She wrapped her fingers around Sam's and pulled herself up next to Dean's head.

"Don't you dare, Eamon," Jack was saying, his voice cold.

Sam ignored him. He watched as Brenna gathered up Dean's head and shoulders and cradled him in her lap, curling her body over his lax face. She glanced up at Sam, her eyes going predatory. She tightened her fingers around Sam's hand.

"Stay close," she whispered to him. "Stay close to me."

Sam felt a tremor in her hand and looked down at Dean's face.

"We're soldiers," Jack growled. "Soldiers in an ageless war, Eamon."

Sam heard the click of a hammer and leaned in close to Brenna so that his forehead touched the top of her head, their bodies effectively shielding Dean's from the danger surrounding them.

"The war is over for you," Eamon declared.

As the first bullet was fired in what became a volley of anger, Sam and Brenna held on to each other and to Dean. Sam closed his eyes, closing out the angered curses screamed in a language he didn't want to understand. He imagined an impenetrable shield covering the three of them. Pictured it with complete clarity. He felt Brenna's hand tighten on his, felt Dean jerk as a gun fired close to them.

Eamon had said that Jack wouldn't leave anything in his wake – that he would come and destruction would follow. As Sam listened to the breaking glass and gunfire, the curses and screams, he knew that Eamon had never thought that by working for someone like Jack, he'd held a viper in his grip and the venom would eventually destroy him.

A sharp cry, a shot, and then the silence was sudden and deafening. Sam was aware of the sound of his breathing, of Dean's heartbeat, of Brenna's trembling gasps. He slowly straightened up from his protective position over his brother. Broken glass slid from his back as he sat up. He hadn't even felt it hit him. Brenna released his hand and he saw her straighten out of the corner of his eye.

Sam looked around. The bar looked very much like the battle zone it had become. Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw Danny's body slumped at the base of the bar, Liam sitting, unharmed, next to Mick, and Eamon holding James to him, a still-smoking gun clutched in a bloody hand. Hearing a wet, wheezing sound, Sam looked over toward Brenna.

Jack had pulled himself close to her. His back was slick with blood and Sam could see it running in a near-steady stream from his mouth.

"Where…" Jack gasped, looking at Brenna.

She lifted an eyebrow, taking in the gore and dismissing it. "You were so close," she whispered. "And you let vengeance rule you."

"Should've killed you…when I…had the chance," Jack gasped, struggling to crawl closer to Brenna, hatred in his eyes.

"Guess you didn't have the sac to finish it," Brenna said, her eyes cold.

"Tell… me… where," blood gurgled up in Jack's throat and he reached out a shaking hand toward Brenna.

Blinking slow, Brenna leaned close. "It's in the house, you bastard."

Jack looked at her, an incredulous expression crossing his face. He choked out a laugh, then tried to take a breath, rolling to his back. As Sam watched, the light left his eyes and the remaining breath in his body leaked out in a tortured hiss.

"_Ach sruthoidh fuil na n-olc mar abhainn."_ Brenna whispered.

Sam watched Brenna carefully. A sound behind him drew his attention. Eamon had gathered James in his arms and stood. Liam lifted Mick's body over his shoulders. They walked past Sam, Brenna, and Dean, stepping over Jack's bloody corpse. Sam and Brenna silently watched them leave the bar. Sam looked back over at Danny's body. In minutes, Eamon was back.

He lifted his last son over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, then turned to face Brenna.

"The war no longer makes sense," he said in a broken voice.

"It's never made sense," she replied. Sam almost shivered from the chill in her voice.

Eamon looked from Brenna to Sam, then down to Dean. Sam resisted the urge to block Dean from Eamon's view.

"I kept waiting for him to give up," Eamon stated. "He would have made a good soldier." Sam thought that he might have heard something akin to respect in the Irish mobster's voice. He simply stared at Eamon silently. _You have no idea, _he thought.

Eamon lifted his eyes from Dean's still form and met Brenna's eyes. "Your parents have been avenged."

Sam looked at Brenna, watching as she lifted an eyebrow, her pupils narrowing so that she stared at him with cool green-gold eyes. A small drop of blood fell from the edge of her jaw and landed on her collar bone.

"My _parents_? What about Declan? You sent him to his death." Sam watched as her fingers curled in to grip Dean's T-shirt at his shoulders. "I hope you live a long life," she said to Eamon. "I hope this loss follows you. I hope it consumes you. I hope you die still feeling the pain."

Sam swallowed, watching the set of Brenna's jaw, then looked back up as Eamon turned silently away from her and carried Danny's body out of the door. The minute they were gone, Sam dropped his eyes back to Dean. His neck throbbed with his heartbeat and the bandage was slightly sticky with blood, but he could feel that Dean had wrapped it tight. The flow of blood was slowing. His hand trembled as he reached for Dean's arm.

Dean had been ferocious only minutes before. He was so still now. His chest barely moved with each breath. His head was canted to the side, resting on Brenna's leg, his arms crossed almost protectively over his chest. The still-livid bruises from the wraith's attack seemed to stand out like markers of pain on his skin. His lashes brushed the soft purple under his eyes that was brought to the surface by exhaustion. Sam tightened his grip on Dean and another explosion from the house shook dust from the rafters of the bar.

"Sam," Brenna said, drawing his attention. Her voice was a strangled vibration of sound. He looked at her, but he already knew.

"He's dying," Sam stated, surprised that his voice sounded so steady in his ears.

"We have to bring him back," tears pooled in Brenna's eyes. "We can't let him go."

"He's not going anywhere," Sam said, suddenly believing it. Suddenly knowing it. Dean had made a promise to John. Sam needed him to keep that promise. And Dean knew that. "He wouldn't leave me."

"He doesn't know how to come back," Brenna said, her breath hitching, finally beginning to succumb to the events of the past two days. "It's what I saw before… he doesn't know how to save himself."

"Then we'll have to show him," Sam said. He looked at Brenna. "Hey, don't you do this. Don't you lose it now. I need your help."

"Sam, I –" she pressed her lips together, clenching her jaw in a physical effort to keep the emotions at bay. "I have done everything I know how to do."

"No. Not everything," Sam whispered, dropping his chin and catching her gaze. "There's one more thing we can try."

She blinked, tears that had been pooling in her eyes flicked away by her lashes, her eyes clearing.

"I need you to, um, connect us again," Sam said. "Like you did back in New Orleans."

"Are you sure?"

"Hell, yeah, I'm sure," Sam said. He was not losing Dean. Not now. Not ever.

Brenna sat with Dean's head and shoulders still in her lap. Sam sat next to him, his left hand gripping Dean's right wrist. Sam took a breath and watched as Brenna's eyes widened and went predatory. She reached out to him and as he lifted his hand to meet hers he closed his eyes. The minute their hands met, Sam was falling.

He opened his eyes, taking a breath. He was standing in a near-empty room, dark except for the soft glow from an old halogen lamp sitting on a wooden table. He knew this place… it was the cabin. The cabin Dean had driven them to like a bat-out-of-hell when they'd rescued John from the Sunrise Apartments. He turned in a slow circle and almost jumped when he saw Dean sitting on a wooden chair in the center of the room, leaning forward, his forearms on his knees, fingers of his left hand rolling the silver ring on his right.

He was staring into the middle distance, not really seeing anything. He looked spent, exhausted. He looked lost. Sam licked his lips and took a breath.

"Dean?"

Dean blinked, sliding his eyes to the side, seeing Sam.

"I wondered if you'd figure out a way to get here," he said.

"Brenna," Sam said by way of explanation. Dean simply tipped his head in acknowledgment.

Sam looked around them. He saw the door that had led to the bedroom Dean had laid their father in that night. The door was missing and instead of a bedroom, Sam saw John, sitting at a table across from a slightly younger Sam. They were smiling about something. Sam looked closer and saw that John was cleaning a weapon, the parts spread out on a white towel. Young Sam was handing him gun oil and talking. He couldn't hear what his younger self was saying, but that didn't seem to be the point of this particular scene in Dean's mind.

He looked back at Dean. His brother was staring at the floor again and this time Sam noticed something strange. Dean looked…gray. Faded. Something else caught his attention. The room was silent. Utterly silent. Almost suffocatingly so. Dean was rarely quiet, even in his sleep. Sam cast a quick look out of the window to the right of Dean. There were salt lines on the window sill -- Dean protecting them even in his mind.

It was dark outside, Sam saw. Not just dark, he realized, but empty. Completely void of… anything. There was nothing outside. Dean was alone in the near-empty room, turning into a shadow of himself, and through the open doorway John and Sam sat in light and warmth, working in tandem with the tools of their trade.

"Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean answered immediately, as if he'd been waiting for Sam to talk.

"Why are we here?"

Dean straightened up slowly, lifting an eyebrow. "You're the smart one. You tell me."

Sam shook his head. "Why this cabin, Dean? Why this place?"

"Good a place as any," Dean shrugged. "Last time we did this we were in a cemetery…"

"Yeah, but that place had a purpose," Sam argued. "You were there to fight…"

Sam stopped. Dean had fought the _chauchemar_ in the New Orleans cemetery, but Sam had seen then that what he'd really had to defeat was the fear of the darkness inside of him – the fear that the darkness would consume him.

"Sam?"

"Do you know why you picked the cabin, Dean?"

Dean straightened slowly in the chair, propping one hand on his thigh as he did so. He looked around as if just now recognizing his environment.

"You almost died here, man," Sam said, pulling his eyebrows together. "Dad almost – the Demon was here…"

"So?"

"Let's go someplace else," Sam tried, not really sure if that were even possible.

"I like it here," Dean pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the doorway leading to the image of Sam and John. He leaned his forearm on the doorframe and rested his forehead on his closed fist.

"But, why?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "It's the last time I can remember…hope."

"Here?" Sam was incredulous.

"Before the Demon. Y'know, when we thought it was Dad," Dean said. "We got him back… he was with us, and you were okay, and I…"

Sam had a sudden flash of memory. A memory of Dean before the Demon revealed himself. Of Dean's face, of his low voice, of the way his eyes stared at nothing. _For you or Dad…the things I'm willing to do or kill… it scares me sometimes._ When Dad had stepped out of that room, the room Dean was staring into now, and told Dean he'd done the right thing by using the bullet, Sam had seen his brother's eyes shift.

He hadn't seen pleasure or relief at those words. He'd seen doubt. Doubt that he could be enough to elicit pride in their father. That's what Sam remembered…and he couldn't understand why this place would give Dean a sense of hope. All Sam saw was loss. Loss of their father, loss of their family, loss of a part of Dean that Sam hadn't seen in his brother since they'd come to this cabin…

"Hey, Sam?"

Dean didn't turn from the doorway.

"Yeah?"

"You remember that winter we lived in New York?"

"New Yo—oh, you mean in that old house, in the country?"

Dean nodded, his eyes still on John and younger Sam. "You remember when we built that snow fort in front of the doors of the school?"

Sam grinned, nodding. He looked down. "I remember you wanted to impress Ellie Walker with your fort-building skills."

At that Dean half-turned from the doorway. "Dude, how the hell do you remember stuff like that?"

"'Cause it worked and I saw you kiss her."

"Geeze, Sammy," Dean turned his back to the scene in the other room, which had been Sam's intention.

"I was like, eight or nine, man. It totally grossed me out," Sam grinned.

Dean shook his head. "Explains a lot about you, Sam. Ellie Walker had lips like..."

"Dean, she was thirteen!"

"So?"

Sam shook his head. "You're impossible."

"You remember how the night we built that fort we went on a job with Dad?"

Sam narrowed his eyes at the seriousness in Dean's tone. His pale, grayish face had pulled together in a frown, and his green eyes were alight with something like pain. He was free of bruises, and seemed whole, but Sam was unnerved by what he could see in his brother's eyes. It was almost like he was looking at…fractures. Split ends of Dean's soul.

"No, not… not really," Sam said, working to remember, to follow Dean's logic, to get to the end so that he could meet Dean there.

"He told us to wait in the car," Dean said, walking away from the bedroom doorway and facing the window, staring out into the nothing. "You were in the backseat, and fell asleep. I was waiting, but… well, you know me."

Sam narrowed his eyes, his gaze on the back of his brother's head. He remembered the cold of the day, the feeling of weightlessness that always accompanied a day where he and Dean behaved like actual kids. He remembered…

"Dad was scared that night," Sam suddenly said. Dean nodded, not turning from the window. "He didn't want to leave us alone…"

"He thought that Jack would come after us while Dad was out fighting the wraith," Dean said.

"Wait, what? You mean… Jack was right? Dad actually fought the wraith?"

"I forgot about it until Jack. It's not in the journal. Probably because he never finished the job," Dean leaned his forearm on the window, resting his forehead on his forearm once more. It was almost like he was too tired to keep his body upright on his own.

"Dean, this is about… about what Jack said, isn't it? About you, what, saving Dad?"

Dean huffed out a mirthless laugh. "I didn't save him; I just made the situation worse. I got worried when he didn't come right back like he'd said. I went in and saw this man holding Dad against a wall by his throat, and Sammy, Dad was almost gone, I swear to God."

Sam swallowed, his eyes on his brother. Waiting.

"I saw a knife stuck in the wall by the door and I didn't think. I just grabbed it and charged. I got the guy in the back of the arm and he let go of Dad," Dean reached up and pressed the flat of his other hand against the window as if for support. "He turned around and grabbed me and I just swung that knife. Got his eye. He was so damn strong, though. Got the knife from me and…"

"And what, Dean," Sam whispered when his brother paused.

"Cut me. Across the chest."

Suddenly Sam remembered. He remembered waking up in the back of the Impala, alone and scared, and seeing Dad run from the building with Dean in his arms. He remembered Dad throwing Dean into the back seat with a towel, and yelling at Sam to _hold that there, don't let go,_ then driving off like the devil was chasing them. He'd never asked what happened – the way Dean and Dad had acted he'd been afraid to.

"I remember," Sam whispered.

"I don't. Not after that. I don't remember Dad pulling a gun on him. I don't remember Dad letting him live. I just remember trying to breathe and then Dad picked me up and he kept saying _stupid kid, stupid kid, why don't you ever listen_."

"He was scared, Dean," Sam said, not liking the droop of his brother's shoulders.

"Yeah, I know. Now," Dean said. "Back then, all I could think is how bad I'd screwed up."

Sam was silent.

"That next day the principal of the school found us, you remember?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, the snow fort had frozen the door shut."

"Yeah, and Dad made us go knock it down."

Sam remembered how slow Dean had moved, how pale he'd looked, but he had never said a word. And he'd attacked the frozen fort with a vengeance that had frightened Sam. Sam shifted his eyes quickly to the scene in the room, sensing movement. John and young Sam had stopped talking and were looking into the room at Dean. John stood and walked to the doorway, staying in the warmth, staying in the light, but watching the darkness seep into Dean from the nothing beyond the window.

"What if I'd listened to him, Sam?"

Sam looked back at Dean. "What do you mean?"

"What if I hadn't gone after him. You think any of this would have happened?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, confused. "Any of what?"

"You think there's a choice with destiny… just like with death?"

Sam swallowed again. Dean's voice had dropped low, as if he wasn't even aware that he was talking to Sam. His head was still resting on his forearm, his other hand pressed flat to the glass. The nothing outside leaked through the cracks in the frame. Sam could see it subtly sink into Dean as he leaned against the window.

"What are you talking about, Dean?"

"She said that I could have stayed. I could have stayed with you," Dean whispered.

Sam shivered once. Dean's words fell on his ears like ice.

"But if I did, I would become what we hunt," Dean lifted a shoulder. "My luck you would probably have had to salt and burn my bones."

"Why are you saying these things, man?" Sam said.

Dean was starting to really scare him. When Brenna had last connected them, Dean had been _Dean_. He'd been hurt in the real world, then. Almost as badly as he was now. But in his mind, in that cemetery in New Orleans, Dean hadn't been hurt, hadn't been fragile. He'd been fierce. He had fought and killed the _chauchemar_ without remorse. He had defeated evil, and they had come back. Together.

But this vision of Dean in front of him was… hollow.

"I am living on borrowed time, Sammy," Dean said, pushing against the window as if he were turning his back to a lover. "The crossroads demon knew it. She _told_ me." He stepped from the shadows to the soft light of the halogen lamp.

Sam gasped. Tendrils of shadow clung to Dean from the window, hanging from the tips of his fingers like ribbons. Dean's face was practically white; his eyes appeared sunken into his face, the green of his irises set off by the purple crescents underneath. He looked worse than he had in the hospital after the heart attack. Worse than when he'd been on the ventilator. He looked like death had touched him.

"I was going to go with the reaper, Sam," Dean said, standing with his weight on one leg, his hands loose at his sides. He narrowed his eyes. "And for one moment… one split second of time, I was actually relieved."

"What?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "It passed. Pretty much because she turned around with that bastard's yellow eyes in her face and I woke up choking on a plastic tube."

Sam hadn't realized how close John had come to sacrificing himself for nothing. He looked back over at John standing in the doorway. He'd dropped his eyes, staring at the floor. Young Sam sat at the table, his eyes on John as well. Sam looked back at Dean. He wanted to reach out and grab him. He wanted to make him sit down. He wanted to wake him up. He wanted to fix this.

"Dean," Sam said, hearing the panic in his voice. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Dean, what do you want?"

Dean pulled his eyebrows together. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you didn't go with her. You're here. What do you want out of this?"

Dean shook his head, clearly confused. "What are you talking about? I want to save you, Sammy."

Sam took a breath. "For yourself, Dean. What do you want for yourself?"

Dean blinked.

"What about Brenna?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "What about her?"

"I see how you look at her when she's not looking. Hell, how you look at her when she _is_ looking is just as bad. I hear how you talk to each other. It was like that with me and Jess." Sam took a step forward. "When we first met, I thought she was a snob and she thought I was a jerk."

"Love at first sight, huh?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Sam grinned sadly. "It's like that with you two."

"I can't love Brenna, Sam."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'll hurt her," Dean said, his lips pressed into a line. "I can't stay. I won't stay. And Brenna, she…"

"I don't think she cares about that," Sam said.

"Doesn't matter," Dean shook his head as if that were the final word on the subject.

"You have to want something for yourself, Dean."

"I do," Dean said, blinking slowly as if trying to focus on Sam. "I want you to be okay. I want those visions to stop. I want you to live, Sam. Demon-free."

Sam sighed. "That's not for _you_, man."

"Sure it is," Dean argued.

"When we were in Chicago," Sam said. Dean pulled his eyebrows together. "With the deava's," Sam reminded him. "You said that you wanted us to be a family again."

"I still do, Sam," Dean said, casting his eyes down. "But that's gone now. And you were right. There's a hole inside of me. And it's growing. And it's gonna swallow me up. And the only thing that's keeping me from falling in is saving you from that demon."

"Dean," Sam said, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. "What happens when you save me?"

Dean looked at him.

"What happens when that is gone?"

"I… I don't know," Dean shook his head slowly. Sam stepped forward again as Dean swayed. He was growing paler; Sam thought he almost looked fuzzy, out of focus. As if he was literally fading. The fractures Sam saw in his eyes grew. Sam felt a sharp pain in his heart as he looked at Dean's eyes.

"Dean, Dad didn't just make that deal so you could save me," Sam said. "He did it so you could live. You have to believe that."

Dean looked up at him, his eyes empty. Sam shivered. The nothing from the outside was echoing in Dean's eyes. Dean started to shake his head, and his knees buckled. He sat heavily on the cabin floor. Sam dropped to his knees across from Dean, facing him.

"You have to believe that Dean," Sam repeated.

"Sammy," Dean said, shaking his head. "You can't just… just _decide_ to believe something."

"Yes you can," Sam snapped. "Yes you _can_, dammit."

Dean stared at him, empty eyes revealing the hollow inside.

"Who are you when I'm not here, Dean?"

Dean just shook his head.

"Dude, those women aren't falling over you because your little brother is standing next to you, I promise you that," Sam tried. "And your pool hustle only works when you're on your own."

Dean blinked.

_Great, Sam, _he chided himself. _Without you he's a womanizing hustler? That's just perfect._

"When I left for Stanford," Sam said. "You kept going. You took care of Dad. You did the job. You did it all without me there."

"I didn't want to," Dean whispered.

"But you did it, man. You have always been the one out there. You were always the one," Sam closed his eyes tight, remembering so many flashes of Dean throughout his life that it almost overwhelmed him. "You made a life for us – kept us safe, all of us. You made our family."

"That's gone, Sam. That's all in the past."

Dean's eyes shifted past Sam to the bedroom. Sam tossed a quick look over his shoulder and saw John looking back at Dean, his eyes shadowed, his mouth set in a familiar firm line. The warm glow in the room behind him seemed to brighten. Sam looked back at Dean.

"But it is still _you_, man. You've done it before; you just have to do it for _you_ now."

"Who says I want to?" Dean's voice was a frightening echo of the night in Oregon.

Sam shoved his hands in his hair, desperate. "You have to want to, Dean," Sam whispered. "You have to want something more…something for yourself, or you're gonna fade on me. I can see it happening now."

"I don't want to leave, Sam," Dean said, a flicker of something like life in his eyes. "I never wanted to go. I told Tessa that you needed me, that my family needed me… but, I… it's like I'm stuck here."

"No," Sam shook his head once. "I refuse to believe that. The wraith took your faith, man. Whatever piece of faith you had inside here, it pulled it away from you. You have to get it back."

"Kinda banished the wraith, Sam. Hard to take anything back from it."

"You have to decide, Dean," Sam said. "You have to decide to stay. You make the choice this time. No reaper, no demon," Sam swallowed, looking back over his shoulder, then turning his eyes to Dean once more. "No Dad. Just you."

"Why, Sam?"

"What?"

"Why stay?"

Sam wanted to scream at Dean. He wanted to shake him. He wanted to rage against whatever had fated Dean to this life, the life that led Dean to ask why he should choose to stay. Sam knew what he wanted to say… _for me, stay for me…_ but this time it had to be about more than him. He knew Dean would choose him over everything. He needed Dean to choose Dean this time, or the wraith would win.

His quick mind cast about desperately for an answer -- an answer that was about _Dean_. He knew his brother better than anyone… yet he struggled to find something that would hold Dean. Something _real_ that wasn't about women, or the Impala, or hustling people, or saving Sam. Then as if he'd heard John call his name, he looked back at his father. John's eyes were on him this time, not on Dean. He was smiling at him, his head tipped down in a slight nod, as if he were telling Sam _you got it, you know how to bring him back, you know what will always keep your brother focused._

Sam turned back and stared, hard, at Dean. "Because Dad wants you to pick up where he left off," Sam said, echoing words Dean had spoken to him so long ago. "Saving people, hunting things."

Something flashed in Dean's eyes. Sam felt a glimmer of hope. He dropped his chin and peered up into Dean's eyes.

"Hailey, Lucas, Amanda, Charlie, Lori," Sam ticked his fingers open as he named the people Dean had saved in the last year. Dean lifted his head, jutting out his chin, his eyes shadowed, but he listened. "The Parks Family, Emily, Cassie, Alice, Kathleen, Ed and Harry –"

"You were a part of all of those, Sam," Dean interrupted.

Sam ignored him, continuing. "Michael and Asher, Sarah, Lenore, Andy, Jo, Evan Hudson," Sam took a breath and made sure Dean was looking at him. "Me."

"I haven't saved you yet, Sammy," Dean said.

"Dude, you have saved my ass so many times it would take us all week to count them."

"You've returned the favor," Dean said, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a small grin. Sam noticed that he seemed slightly clearer, more in focus, as if the fissures in his fractured soul were beginning to seal.

"Dean, it's what you do, man. You protect. You guard. You save."

Dean swallowed and looked down.

"What happens to the world if there is no Dean Winchester?"

"Thanks, Clarence," Dean said sarcastically, lifting his eyes to meet Sam's. Sam almost laughed out loud as he saw a little light hit Dean's eyes.

"I'm serious, man. You have to believe me, here. You _have_ to."

"Sam, I didn't do any of that without you," Dean argued.

"Without you, I would have been lost, Dean," Sam said. "You saved me in ways you'll never know. Just by being my brother. Just by being there. By choosing to stay."

Dean blinked, looking down. When he lifted his eyes, Sam saw some of the emptiness had receded. Sam looked up to the windows. The nothing was still outside, but Sam thought he could detect light through the windows. He looked over his shoulder at the room that held John and younger Sam. This time they were both looking back at him, apparently waiting.

"So, the answer is yes."

Sam turned away from the images from Dean's memory and faced his brother, narrowing his eyes. "The answer to what?"

"There is a choice with destiny."

"I guess," Sam hedged, not wanting to say the wrong thing. Not when color was beginning to return to Dean's face.

"And if I believe that, it means you have to, too."

"Yeah, Dean, I believe it."

"That includes anything demonic," Dean said, suddenly focusing on Sam.

Sam froze. "Demonic?"

"No one is destined to go darkside, Sam," Dean said. "There is always a choice. If you want me to believe that there's something out there for me," Dean indicated with his head to the dark windows to his left. Sam saw that light from somewhere outside the cabin had started to turn the black to gray. "Then you have to believe that you have a choice in this whole destiny business."

"What, you're negotiating faith with me?"

"You bet your ass I am," Dean said. As Sam watched, the paleness of Dean's features was replaced by the normal tanned coloring and the green of his brother's eyes seemed lit from within. "I'm not coming back just to lose my brother, Sam. I won't do it."

Sam pressed his lips together, watching the fire flash in Dean's eyes with those words. He watched as Dean lifted his eyes to the room behind Sam. Sam looked over and saw with mild shock that John was back at the table, cleaning the gun, young Sam handing him gun oil and talking, and this time a younger Dean was sitting across from John, next to Sam. His eyes were down and he was running the blade of his bowie knife along the edges of a wet stone.

Sam remembered this now. He'd been telling them about an oral report he'd had to give in his government class. He'd been proud of his spin on the pros and cons of a democratic society and his father and brother sat listening to him. Just listening. Dean had thrown in a comment now and again, but John had just listened, watching them. It had been a good day. He turned back to the Dean in front of him.

"You got it, man. There is a choice with destiny."

Dean stretched out his right hand. "Promise me," he said.

Sam sighed and reached back for Dean. He forgot where they were. The minute his hand touched his brother's, he felt himself falling again. He opened his eyes, weak, trembling. He still sat next to Dean, but he'd released Brenna's hand to grasp Dean's. Brenna was watching him with her druid eyes, her body tense, her other hand pressed against Dean's face.

He looked at Dean. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. He'd forgotten for a moment how wrecked his brother was while he'd been inside his head. The blood from the wound on his shoulder had continued to flow and was soaking his shirt and Brenna's jeans.

Sam looked back up at Brenna, a question forming on his lips when he suddenly felt Dean stir. He opened his eyes, groggily blinking up at Brenna. She smiled down at him and Sam saw her unconsciously stroke the side of Dean's face.

"Where's Sam?" Dean rasped out.

"Right here, Dean. I'm here."

Dean shifted his eyes to meet Sam's. "You…" he gasped.

"Dean?"

"You did good," Dean got out before his eyes closed again.

"Dean?" Sam leaned closer. He suddenly became aware of a high-pitched, familiar wail. It took him a minute to place it, but when he did, his panic level hit a new high.

"Oh, shit," he gasped, straightening up.

"What?" Brenna asked, reacting to his fear.

"It's a siren," Sam said. "Scratch that… multiple sirens."

"Probably the fire department," Brenna said, obviously confused by his reaction. "Because of the house. This is a good thing, Sam."

"Fire brings police," Sam said. "Dean's wanted, we're sitting next to a dead body we can't explain, and I have Declan's body in the trunk of the Impala."

"This is _not_ a good thing, Sam."

"Dean?" Sam shook his brother once. Dean blinked his eyes open, staring at Sam, but not seeing him. "Dean, I need you to wake up, man. You have to listen to me."

Dean blinked again, and Sam could see barely see the green of his irises around his wide pupils.

"Dean, c'mon, man," Sam tried again, shaking Dean harder in his desperation. Dean hissed as Sam jostled his ribs. "Dammit," Sam cursed himself. "Sorry, Dean."

"Sam?"

"Hey," Sam leaned in close so that Dean could see him.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Cops are here, man," Sam said.

"Shit," Dean cursed, reaching up for Sam's hand. "Help me up."

"Are you insane?" Brenna said, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You can't seriously think you can walk out of here."

"We can't stay, either," Sam said, wincing as the wound on his neck throbbed once, hard.

The sirens reached the property and Sam tensed as he heard voices outside. He looked down at Dean, but his brother's eyes had closed again. His brows were pinched in pain, but he was out. Sam closed his eyes. He opened them when he heard a voice come close to the open doorway.

"Dean," Sam gripped Dean's hand in his and tried to pull his brother's limp body toward him. Brenna gently pushed from behind. Dean blinked his eyes open again. "Dean, I'm sorry, man, but we have to get out of here."

"Trying, Sam," Dean gasped out.

"I know," Sam pulled him closer and felt Dean jerked backwards against the pain in his chest.

"Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean gasped out. "Aw, fuck… _Damn_ that hurts …"

Sam gritted his teeth, and continued to try to leverage Dean up, trying to put Dean's arm across his shoulders as he did so. Brenna lifted it and helped him balance as Dean trembled beside him. He was shaking so badly that Sam was having trouble holding on to him. Brenna stood close to Dean's wounded right side and tried to support without actually touching him.

"Yeah, Joe, I got this," said a voice as a man came through the opened door. "You swing around back and we'll –"

He stopped, catching site of the bloody trio standing just to the side of Jack's body.

"Holy Mary Mother of God," the man whispered, his startling blue eyes staring in shock.

Sam shifted Dean in his grip, feeling his brother lift his head. "Hey, Sinatra," Sam breathed, hoping the man remembered him, hoping for a break.

"Sinatra?" Dean muttered, focusing bleary eyes on the figure across from them. "Oh," he said, nodding. "Funny, Sam."

"What the hell…"

"Listen, man, you helped us out, um, yesterday," Sam looked at Brenna, who shrugged and nodded. "You remember?"

"The kid from the church fire, right? And his…" Sinatra's eyes tracked to Dean hanging limply in Sam's grip, his arm across Sam's shoulders, his head down.

"My brother, yeah."

"What is he doing out of the hospital?" Sinatra demanded, then looked around. "Scratch that, what the hell happened here? Who is this guy? Who hit her? Why are you bleeding?"

Sam licked his lips and took a breath. "I can explain," he started. More shouts from outside drew his attention for a moment and then he felt Dean's weight increase in his arms. "Never mind, no I can't. We need your help."

"Well, yeah, my truck's outside. I'll just get my partner –"

"Wait," Sam stopped Sinatra from moving further away with his cry of pure desperation. "Wait, no, not that kind of help."

Sinatra looked at Brenna, and then his eyes narrowed as he stared at Dean. "Kid, lay him down."

"No, listen," Sam argued.

"Lay him down, now," Sinatra barked.

Sam resisted the urge to reply 'yes sir' and started to ease Dean to the ground. It was only then he heard Dean's strangled breathing. He got Dean to the ground and the harsh, strangled sounds started to ease up, returning to a series of shallow gasps.

Sinatra immediately bent over Dean. "What's his name again, kid?"

"Dean. I'm Sam. That's Brenna."

"Dean," Sinatra turned Dean's face and flicked on a pen sized flashlight, that Sam thought he'd apparently pulled from thin air, shining the beam into Dean's eyes. "Dean, wake up for me, kid."

Dean obeyed, blearily blinking his eyes at Sinatra.

"Where does it hurt?"

"Chest," Dean gasped. Sam stared.

"Does your head hurt, too, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean said, blinking. "Where's Sam?"

"I'm here," Sam said, his stomach clenching.

"Check him," Dean gasped.

"What?" Sinatra and Sam exclaimed in unison.

"Neck," Dean said, his eyes rolling closed.

"Hey, hey," Sinatra patted Dean's cheeks. "I need you to stay awake for me, Dean."

Dean opened his eyes. Sinatra looked up at Sam.

"Keep him awake, Sam. We need to get him to a hospital. Now."

Sam bit his lip. "We can't go to a hospital. I can't explain why, but –"

"Listen to me very carefully," Sinatra said. "You don't get him some medical treatment soon, you're gonna have to say goodbye."

For the second time that night, Sam's legs refused to hold him. He sank to his knees beside Dean, looked down at his brother's unfocused eyes, then back up at Sinatra. "Please, man, just… isn't there anything…"

Brenna put her hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sinatra," she said, pulling the blue-eyed EMT's attention to her. "This guy," she tilted her head to Jack's body. "Is a leader of an American-based IRA unit. He was killed by one of his men. Have the police check his ID and you'll find out I'm telling the truth. Only do it later because these guys," she tilted her head toward Sam. "Saved my life and if they are found out could mean serious trouble for them. Help us. Let the good guys win, just this once."

Sinatra had his eyes pinned to Brenna. "Who hit you?"

"The guy that killed this guy," she answered.

Sinatra looked back down at Dean. "You still with me, Dean?"

"Mmm," Dean muttered. Sam watched Dean blink at the man and couldn't tell if his brother comprehended what was happening around them or not. His breathing was shallow, the only color on his face from the bruises and the freckles across the bridge of his nose.

Sinatra took a breath. "I have my pickup outside. I'm… I'll have to figure out something to tell my partner."

Sam bit his lip, waiting.

"I know a place. A VA clinic. There's a doctor there. Kinda weird, but he's a good doctor."

"Weird is the story of our lives," Sam whispered. "Thanks."

"Keep him awake," Sinatra said. "I'll be back."

He shot to his feet and jogged out of the door. Sam watched him go, seeing through the windows of the bar the hoses of water being turned on to what was left of the house, as well as the garage and then the bar to keep it from catching fire.

"Sam," Dean rasped.

Sam looked down, grabbing his brother's outstretched hand. "I'm here, Dean."

"Declan," Dean said.

Sam closed his eyes. The body was in the trunk of the Impala. Which was parked outside the front of the bar. Where any cops on scene could look inside if they wanted.

"Give me the keys," Brenna said.

"What?"

"I know a place to hide the car," she stuck her hand out, wiggling her fingers. "Give me the keys."

"No way –"

"Sam," Dean interrupted. "Give them to her."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. Dean was going to let her drive his baby? He dug the keys from his pocket. "You sure, man?"

"Just stay," Dean said. "Just stay here."

Sam nodded, swallowing. He handed the keys to Brenna.

"Don't leave me here," she muttered as she ran out of the bar. Sam heard the Impala's low rumble and was surprised when no one fighting the fire seemed to notice.

Sam looked down at Dean, who had closed his eyes again.

"Dean," Sam said, shaking his brother's arm. "Open your eyes, man. You stay awake, okay?"

Dean's eyes opened half-mast, staring at a space just over Sam's shoulder. "Did you wonder what I thought, Sam?"

Sam blinked. "When?"

"When you left. When Gordon found you."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, I wondered."

"You called me."

"I called you when I found the bullets on the roof. Gordon's bullets."

"You called me for help."

Sam watched as Dean's eyes closed and he forced them open, trying to obey his order, trying to stay awake.

"Yeah, I needed your help, Dean."

"Not enough to stay."

"I was stupid, man."

"S'okay, Sam," Dean closed his eyes. "You came to the cabin. You came after me."

"You remember that?"

Dean opened his eyes again. "Ellie Walker's lips…"

Sam grinned. "You remember each one?"

"Of her lips?"

"Each girl you kissed."

"Nah," Dean pulled his eyebrows together. "Too many."

"Slut."

"I'm irresistible," Dean grinned a slow, half-grin just as Brenna came back in through the back of the bar. He saw her and his grin vanished. "What the hell happened to you?"

Brenna shot her eyes to Sam. "Don't worry about it, Dean."

But Sam saw that Dean was actually more alert looking at Brenna's bruised face. He spoke up. "Eamon hit her, remember?"

"Bastard," Dean hissed. "I'm gonna kill him for that."

Brenna actually grinned, watching as Dean's eyes opened wider. "Danny knocked me out."

"He's dead, too."

"Well, actually –" Sam started, but Sinatra's voice interrupted him.

"Okay, listen," Sinatra said, running back in through the front door of the bar. "The cops are on their way. Truck's around back. Let's get you guys out of here."

Sam pushed himself to his feet and started to lean over to help Dean when his world suddenly went silent and black, then sound and light rushed back in. He blinked his eyes open and saw that he was back on the ground, Brenna's arms bracing him.

"Whoa," he muttered.

Sinatra was in front of him, looking at the bandage on his neck. "Good field dressing," he commented, "but you've lost some blood, Sam. Let me help your brother, you just concentrate on staying on your feet, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam nodded and let Brenna help him up.

Sinatra leaned over and eased an arm under Dean's shoulders, helping him to stand, then put Dean's left arm over his shoulder. "What's the other guy look like," Sinatra said, wincing at Dean's bruises.

"Well," Dean said, focusing on moving forward. "If you really want to know…"

"Dean," Sam and Brenna spoke up at the same time.

"Fine," Dean muttered. "Spoil all my fun."

They reached the back of the bar and went through the doors to see a black Ford F-150 pick up with blue rescue lights fixed to the roof sitting right outside the exit. Sam climbed into the bed of the truck, then turned and helped Sinatra ease Dean up.

"Easy, easy," Sinatra whispered as Sam worked to lift Dean over the edge of the tailgate. "Careful, watch that chest, that's it, keep him steady."

Sam and Sinatra mirrored looks of sympathy when Dean bit back a cry as his ribs bumped on the tailgate. Sam settled back against the cab of the truck, Dean in front of him, leaning against his chest. The sliding window between the cab and the bed of the truck was open.

Brenna climbed into the cab as Sinatra started the engine. Music instantly blared from the speakers of the truck.

"_I'm your dream, make you real. I'm your eyes when you must steal. I'm your pain when you can't feel…"_

Sinatra threw the truck into drive and leaned over to turn down the music with a muttered "Sorry."

"No wait," Brenna said. "It will help."

"That's my girl," Sam heard Dean whisper.

"Help?" Sinatra was saying. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not," Brenna said.

"Sinatra?" Sam called through the open window over James Hetfield's growl.

"Virgil," Sinatra replied.

"What?"

"My name. It's Virgil."

Sam waited a beat.

"You can call me Sinatra, though," Sinatra said.

"Thanks for this," Sam said, emotion choking his volume. He held Dean close to him, trying to ease his brother's shaking, supporting his broken body against him. "Thank you for helping us."

"Thank me after Iggy helps your brother. And you. And her," Sinatra said.

"The doctor's name is Iggy?" Dean rasped.

"Has a thing for Iggy Pop," Sinatra called as he turned down a deserted dirt road.

"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me," Dean shook his head.

www

_a/n: One more chapter to go... _

_Music:_

"Sad But True" by Metallica

Translations:

_Ni dhoirtfear fuil neamhchiontach choiche. Ach sruthoidh fuil na n-olc mar abhainn. Never shall innocent blood be shed. The blood of the wicked shall flow like a river._


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1 _

_a/n: Sorry this last update is later than usual… life has been a bit of a juggling act of late. I am actually a little sad that this story is over; I had fun writing it. I have thoroughly enjoyed and appreciate all of your feedback. Oh, and I know I've forgotten to say this before – for everyone who is reading but hasn't reviewed, I wanted to say thanks so much for spending some time with my words and imagination. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. It's probably the longest chapter I've written so far… but I had to write until the movie in my mind was finished._

_Disclaimer for a slightly racy scene later in the chapter. No worse than in Chapter 3, though. And – I do not have any real medical knowledge. Keep that in mind as you read…_

_Special thanks to Kelly for her constant support; I'm so glad you're ready for more, girl, because my imagination is on overdrive and I can't stay away from these boys for long._

_And E, I go back to what you said…something I never knew I needed has become something I don't want to write without. Crazy life, huh?_

_www_

_Time is the fire in which we burn. - Delmore Schwartz_

Into the Fire – Chapter 8

Dean bit back a cry as his ribs bumped on the tailgate. He closed his eyes, breathing through his nose, fighting to do as Sinatra said, fighting to stay awake. He felt Sam pull him gently back against his chest and tried to swallow the guttural growl of pain that began low in his throat. Sam pressed the palm of his hand against Dean's shoulder, setting the knife wound on fire, stemming the flow of blood. The sliding window between the cab and the bed of the truck was open.

Forcing his eyes open, Dean blinked at the inky blackness of the night turned darker by the orange glow from the burning house on the other side of the building. Dean heard Brenna climb into the cab as Sinatra started the engine. Music instantly blared from the speakers of the truck.

"_I'm your dream, make you real. I'm your eyes when you must steal. I'm your pain when you can't feel…"_

Sinatra threw the truck into drive and leaned over to turn down the music with a muttered "Sorry."

"No wait," Brenna said. "It will help."

"That's my girl," Dean whispered without thinking, relieved that she would think to give him that solace, that source of peace. He closed his eyes and let his head tip back against Sam's shoulder. He felt Sam stiffen at the contact, and tried to pull his head up, but found that his muscles wouldn't obey him. The tremors that he'd been trying to suppress shifted to the surface. _Dammit…_

"Help?" Sinatra was saying. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not," Brenna said.

"Sinatra?" Sam called through the open window over James Hetfield's growl.

"Virgil," Sinatra replied.

"What?"

"My name. It's Virgil," Dean heard a second or two of silence filled by the shrill guitar chord from the radio. "You can call me Sinatra, though," he continued.

"Thanks for this," Sam said. Dean felt Sam square his shoulders, his hands like two bookends on Dean – one on his shoulder, the other his chest. Holding him still, holding him steady. "Thank you for helping us."

"Thank me after Iggy helps your brother. And you. And her," Sinatra said.

"The doctor's name is Iggy?" Dean rasped.

"Has a thing for Iggy Pop," Sinatra called as he turned down a deserted dirt road.

"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me," Dean shook his head.

He closed his eyes, letting the rumble of the pick-up and the burr of the guitar and voice from the radio roll over him. His chest ached; he felt a pressure there, like someone was sitting on him. It felt like he was breathing through a straw. He felt Sam's hand press harder and the jolt of pain in his shoulder as a result of that touch was enough to pry his heavy eyes open.

"Guh, sonova--," he breathed.

"Sorry, man," Sam whispered, as though matching his tone to Dean's. "You're bleeding all over the place."

Dean felt the weight of his body – fingers of gravity reaching from the dirt below the bed of the truck, working to pull him back into the earth, to hold him, keep him there. He blinked into the black of the night. He wasn't ready to go. Sam had shown him why. In the cabin. Sam had told him why…

"Sam," he pushed out through stiff lips, his jaw a granite line as he resisted the lure of oblivion.

"Don't try to talk, Dean," Sam said.

"Let him talk," Sinatra said from the cab of the truck. "Keep him awake, man, I mean it."

"What if…" Sam faltered, and Dean felt his brother's fingers tighten their hold on his body. "What if I can't?"

There was a heavy silence.

"You might not be able to wake him up," Sinatra finally said.

Dean shook once, gritting his teeth. No way he was letting _that_ happen.

"Sam," he tried again.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam replied, leaning close.

"Gonna find Ava," Dean wheezed.

"Don't worry about that now," Sam replied. Dean could practically hear him shake his head.

"Promised," Dean gasped.

Sam shifted behind him. "One crisis at a time, man."

Dean tried to nod, but found he wasn't able to move his head. He felt his ribs shift as the truck turned a corner and bit back a groan. He knew he was broken up inside. He'd felt something in his chest give as Jack had slammed him against the wall. He blinked again, conscious on some level that each time he did so his eyes stayed closed a little bit longer.

"Sam," he said again. He had to tell him… needed Sam to know… But _God_ his chest hurt. Dean tried to arch his back slightly, thinking it would relieve the pressure, but couldn't get his body to cooperate.

"Yeah."

Sam lived by a different moral compass, a different set of rules, than Dean. But they were brothers. And by virtue of blood and loyalty, Dean finally knew that Sam would always come back. Sam wouldn't leave him again. It was suddenly important that Sam know he knew that. But it was so damned hard to talk when he was breathing through a straw.

"Trust you," he managed.

Sam was silent for a moment. "I know you do, Dean."

Dean tried to turn his head, tried to shift so that he could look at Sam, but again, his body refused to obey him. He lay with his head back on his brother's shoulder, one arm limp at his side, the other across his now unbandaged ribs, blinking at the stars.

"Dean," Sam started.

"Mm," he managed in reply.

"I should have… should have listened to you," Sam said. Dean felt Sam shift behind him, could tell Sam had tipped his head back against the rear window.

The truck hit a bump in the dirt road and Dean hissed as he felt the bones in his broken chest rub against each other. Sam's hands tightened against him.

"Sorry," Sinatra apologized from the cab.

Dean swallowed the pain-induced bile that rose in his throat, clenching his jaw and curling his hands into fists. He breathed out through his nose, trying to keep from crying out. _Get a grip, Dean… it's been worse than this… you've handled more than this… just breathe through it…_ He shook slightly as he tried to even out his breathing. He heard voices as if from a distance and blinked hard to keep his eyes open. The music on the radio was suddenly louder. He didn't know the song, but he could hear the beat.

"_In your eyes you see it done. Colors drained away like water. Distance all but disappears, and nothing can be done…"_

As he counted, he felt his fists trembling against him. The bandages that had once held his ribs tight were pooled in a heap of rags around his chest and slouching to his waist. He slowly managed to relax his hands and his jaw. But his chest was so heavy.

"_Don't. Don't turn away. Don't let it take you over. You cannot give in. Don't let it take you over now…"_

The voices in the distance filtered in. Sam was talking. He had been talking this whole time, Dean realized. He closed his eyes, shifting his attention from the beat of the music to his brother's voice.

"… and I think I took for granted that you would come after me. I just… hearing you say that stuff, knowing Dad knew something about me all this time and didn't tell me… didn't tell _us_… I couldn't just lay low. I couldn't just hide. I had to _do_ something. I think I kinda… I don't know, channeled you. You're the one that's always moving. You never just stop and think it through. Shoot first, ask questions later…"

As Sam continued Dean found himself counting to the rhythmic cadence of his brother's ramble. He heard the words, but it was the rumble from Sam's chest, the way his voice hit Dean's ears, that impacted him more. Sam talked like John. Dean realized now that he always had. He measured his words, chose them carefully, used them purposefully. Dean kept his eyes closed, listening, counting, and suddenly found that he could lift his head.

"Dean?"

"S'alright," Dean slurred, allowing his head to drop back. It was enough to know that he could lift it again. "Just tell me next time."

"What?"

"Just tell me," Dean said. "We'll go together."

"You didn't want to go, Dean. You wanted to stop. You wanted to--"

"Keep you safe," Dean interrupted.

"You can't… you might not always be able to keep me safe, Dean."

"Can try," Dean whispered.

He heard voices from the cab of the truck and realized that Sinatra and Brenna could hear everything they were saying.

Before he could decide if he cared, Sinatra called back, "Hang on to him – we have to go over a bridge, and it's… well, just hang on to him."

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered as Sam's hands tightened their grip on his shoulder and chest.

The music was suddenly louder again. Dean instinctively knew Brenna had turned it up. The truck rocked roughly and his body shifted and he closed his eyes and breathed. Pain, complete in its intensity, washed over him and he groaned.

"_I walked down to the other end of the day, just to catch those last few waves. I held out my hand and slowly waved goodbye, I turned now my eyes up to the sky…"_

This time even the music didn't help. He knew he wasn't going to be able to hold on to awareness much longer. The pull of the darkness was too strong. The desperate need to take a deep breath was still denied to him and it was beginning to panic him.

"Sam," he ground out. The world was spinning a hell of a lot faster than it was supposed to.

"I'm here," Sam said.

"_I held out my hands into the light and I watched it die, I know that I was part to play. My god, my time to die. Never want to spend my life alone…"_

"Sam," he tried again, hearing the weakness in his voice and hating it. He knew why he had to stay. He _knew_ that now. The darkness couldn't consume him. He wouldn't let it… "Remember," he had to take a breath. Dammit, why was it so hard to breathe? "Remember."

"Remember what, Dean?"

"Remember," Dean said again. _Remember that there's always a choice. Remember destiny means nothing. Remember that I'm not going anywhere. Remember that you aren't alone in this. _

"Dean? Hey, open your eyes, man."

_Can't breathe, Sam. Too many walls…_

"Hey, we almost there?"

"Just another mile, Sam. He hanging in there?"

"Dean? Shit. Drive faster, man."

"Hey, what…what are you… are you crazy, girl? Don't climb through that window when I'm doing 80 on a dirt road!"

"I got it, I'm fine. Dean?"

"He's not… he won't open his eyes."

"Hey, Dean. You're scaring your brother. I know you can hear me. I want you to open your eyes. Just for a second, okay?"

"Brenna, careful, don't –"

"It's okay, Sam."

He felt her hand. It was cool and soft and she rested her palm along his cheekbone and her thumb carefully, softly brushed his lips. He felt her touch and he turned his head into the pressure of her hand. It felt good, her touch. It was comforting. It was… it was almost like coming home. Sam's hands tightened their grip on his body and Dean blinked his eyes open. He saw the silhouette of Sam's jaw above him. And then he saw Brenna's bruised face. Her mouth relaxed into a smile when she saw him look at her.

"See? I knew you could hear me."

Dean blinked at her. Waves of heat followed by the tidal pull of cold washed over him and left him shaking.

"I know you're hurting, Dean," she said, her voice soft, steady. "But you have to stay, okay. You have to stay here with us. Until we can get you help. We're almost there."

He wanted to say something – wanted to sit up, tell Sam he didn't have to hold on so tight, tell Brenna he would make the people who hurt her pay. He wanted to make sure Sam was okay, make sure they were taken care of. But he could only blink.

"Hang on," Sinatra called back to them. "One more bump and then we're there."

Dean clenched his jaw and as the truck shifted he felt Sam's grip on his body and Brenna's slim hand slide into his right one. She tightened her fingers as the pain rocked him. _Jesus Christ… this was a bad idea… we should never have gotten into this sadistic bastard's truck… holy hell that hurts…_ He held his breath as the truck smoothed out.

"Everybody okay back there?"

Dean blinked his eyes open, looking up at Sam's jaw, hoping his brother could see his eyes. Sam pulled his head back and looked down at Dean, then replied.

"We are if you tell us we're there."

"We're there."

_It's about friggin' time,_ Dean thought. He was done. He couldn't have fought off a gnat at this point. When the truck came to a stop, he breathed shallowly as Sam eased out from behind him and laid him gently on the truck bed. The music cut off abruptly as Sinatra killed the engine. Dean heard him exit the cab and slam the door, bellowing "Iggy!" as he hurried away from the truck.

Dean lay still, concentrating on breathing, concentrating on keeping his eyes open, his gaze on the stars above him as they blinked back at him. He was aware of Sam's absence and of Brenna's hand still in his. This hunt had _not_ worked out like he planned. Come to think of it… he hadn't actually planned anything. He had reacted. Someone had called John for help, and he had reacted. He put Sam in danger because he hadn't thought it through – just like Sam had said. Shoot first, ask questions later. Turned out this time he needed the answers first.

"'Kay, Dean," Sam was saying from somewhere outside of the truck. Dean continued to look up at the night sky. "They've got this… canvas sling thing they're gonna roll you in. That way you don't have to move much, okay?"

Dean slid his eyes to his right and saw Brenna sitting there. He squeezed her hand, the air still too precious to him to spare any on words. She nodded her head at him and he blinked.

"He's ready," he heard her say.

Dean saw dimly lit figures move around him. Whispered commands slid over his ears. He didn't recognize the voices and all he could think about was the heaviness of his body. There was no way they would be able to lift him. He was anchored to the ground. The earth was pulling at him through the bed of the truck. He felt someone shift him slightly with a soft _easy there, kid_ and then he was being lifted into the air. The sudden weightless feeling was dizzying. He could tell when he was being lowered from the truck and suddenly he saw Sam.

"Sammy," he called, his voice a thin mockery of his normal tone.

He saw Sam's eyes shoot down to him. His brother was a mess. The bandage around his neck was dark from blood. His shoulder had apparently started bleeding again. His face was bruised. But it was his eyes that caught Dean. They glittered. Sam was focused. He had a purpose. He was _doing_ something. Suddenly Dean realized that they weren't really that different. Not anymore.

"You hang in there, Dean," Sam said, reaching down to clasp Dean's shoulder. "You hear me?"

Dean blinked. He had held on as long as he could. He had tried, but the weight of his body was too great.

"W-wake me up… will ya?" He closed his eyes, he felt Sam's hand tighten, heard his brother's breath.

"No, wait, Dean, c'mon."

_Sorry, Sammy…_

www

On some level he was aware that he was dreaming. It was a confusing mixture of images that his rational mind understood weren't real, but at the same time, he saw, he heard, he felt, he tasted. There was salt in the air. It was both reassuring and disorienting. Salt particles were always left behind on the air after he blasted a spirit, but he felt no weapon in his hands.

He heard the wild cry of a bird. It was the mournful, desperate sounding cry of a seagull. He blinked his non-existent eyelids and realized that he was standing on a pier jutting out over the ocean. He'd never been here before. He'd seen this place on TV, in movies, but he'd never been here before. He was sure of that.

The light of the sun on the water was blinding. It sparkled and reflected off of each little crest and dip of the water. The bird cried again and he turned his head and saw it. Sitting on the top of a pylon supporting the pier, the white and grey bird turned its head in that odd jutting motion he'd always found curious about birds. He took a step toward it and jerked back in shock when it turned its head to face him and he saw the bird's eyes.

They were Brenna's eyes. Large, green-gold, and sad. As he stared, the bird seemed to grow, morph and before his eyes it turned into a hawk. The red, gold, and brown feathers fluffed a bit from the wind coming off of the ocean. The hawk's cry was shrill, and oddly thrilling. It turned Brenna's eyes away from him and looked to the end of the pier.

Sam was standing there. He was in jeans and a white T-shirt, the brilliant sun hitting his back and making him glow. Dean squinted his eyes, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

"Sam?"

Sam lifted his chin at Dean.

"Sam, what are you doing? C'mon back from the edge."

Sam didn't move. He just stared at Dean.

"Seriously, man. Quit messing around."

The part of him that knew this was a dream kept his voice calm. The rest of him began to sweat. He felt his heart begin to race. Something was wrong. He stepped forward again, closer to Sam, but cautious in his approach. Sam's heels were balanced over the edge of the pier.

"Sam, get away from there. I mean it."

Sam looked over at the hawk. Dean followed his gaze. The hawk looked at Dean with Brenna's eyes. With one last wild cry that sent a chill down Dean's spine, it spread its wings and lifted itself from the pier. He watched it fly away, over the open expanse of the ocean, and when he couldn't see it anymore, he dropped his eyes to Sam. He couldn't stop the hawk from leaving him; its will was more than even he could control. But he had to get Sam back from that ledge, had to stop him from going over… from going somewhere he might not be able to follow.

Sam tilted his head slightly to the side, and Dean suddenly saw that his brother was crying. Sam's chin trembled and he pressed his lips together.

"Sammy? What is it?"

Sam looked down and a tear glistened once in the brilliance of the sun, then dropped from the edge of his jaw. He lifted his eyes once more and Dean felt his chest tighten painfully at the look in his brother's eyes. It was a look of complete heartbreak. It was loneliness. It was fear. It was anger. It was confusion. It was understanding. It was love. It was a reflection of Dean's soul.

And Dean knew in that moment what was about to happen.

"Sam – no. Don't you do it."

Sam took a step back. Dean reached out, but his fingers closed on nothing. Sam toppled off the edge of the pier into the ocean without a sound. Dean didn't stop to think if he could follow… didn't stop to think if he _should_. He dove in after him. The shock of the water stole his breath. He opened his eyes, but the salt burned them. He couldn't see, and he couldn't breathe. He spread his arms wide, his hands searching for Sam. He felt nothing but the oddly gritty feel of the ocean.

Desperate for air he kicked hard and shot upward toward the surface.

"Gah!" he opened his eyes and was honestly surprised to see himself in a white room, brightly lit by two large overhead lamps. He blinked furiously, wondering why he wasn't wet, but could still taste salt in his mouth. Fire erupted from his side and he pulled in a sharp breath.

"We got him! We got him, okay, Virge, get me that O2!"

The voice was foreign, the tone urgent. He shot his eyes around, searching. _Sam…_ Dean knew he was there… had to be.

"Hold that tube steady, Virge."

"I got it. Just finish up will you? He's awake."

He felt an oxygen mask on his face and sweet, cool air poured into his nose and mouth. He almost gulped it down.

"Dean?"

There. There he was. Dean knew he had to be there.

"Sam," he replied, but it was more a movement of lips than an actual execution of sound.

"Dean, hang in there," Sam was saying. Dean couldn't see him. But he could hear him. "Hang in there. They're almost done."

"Iggy, his shoulder—"

"I see it, I see it."

"Dean?"

"Okay, I have to get these ribs set, keep that tube steady or we'll suffocate him!"

"Jesus Christ…"

"Dean, hey, can you keep your eyes open?"

He rolled his eyes, trying desperately to force them open, trying to do as Sam asked, but they were so heavy and he couldn't breathe and _God_ he hurt… what the hell were they doing to him? He had to get them away, had to make them stop, had to make the fire stop.

"Aw, Christ, kid… don't move, okay, hold still."

"Dean, hey, hey, I'm here, okay, I'm right here, put your arms down, okay?"

"Virge grab him."

"I'm trying!"

"Let me in there—"

"No way, Sam, you're barely on your feet."

"Let me in there, dammit! Let me… Dean, hey, hey it's me, you feel me, man? You feel that?"

He felt hands on his arm, holding him down. They were familiar, they were known. His body bucked slightly as he fought for air fought to keep his eyes open.

"Dean—"

The fire was moving. It crept from his side and enveloped his chest. Dean arched his neck, trying to pull his head back, trying to pull it away from the fire. But it was too hot, moved too fast, and soon it wrapped around him, licked at his face, his eyes, his hair. He tried to open his mouth, but the fire stole his voice. Cursing silently, he let the fire take him.

www

"What does that mean, healing faster than normal?"

_Damn, Sammy, why the hell are you talking so loud? _Dean wanted to roll over onto his stomach, and bury his head under his pillow, shutting out Sam's voice and… what the hell was that smell? Patchouli? He started to move and was stopped by an instant shot of pain through his side. He realized then that the pinch he'd been feeling in his arm was an IV, and that there was an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

"Means, he's all broken up inside. And the bones are starting to heal."

"Well, isn't that what's supposed to happen?"

Dean turned his head toward the voices, the irritation in Sam's voice pulling him from the comfort of darkness.

"Over a period of weeks, man," said a voice Dean thought sounded familiar, but he couldn't place.

He blinked his eyes blearily and saw Sam leaning against a wall, an open door behind him. His right arm was in a sling, the cast that poked from the end of the sling was clean and white – obviously a replacement of the one that had been turned grey from the smoke and fire. A square white bandage covered part of his neck. His eyes were on a man standing next to Dean.

Dean blinked twice when he realized that he had to be looking at Iggy. The doctor wore a grey T-shirt, his sinewy, tanned arms covered with a series of tattoos. His face was long, thin, and drawn, his eyes tired. His hair hung down his back and over his shoulders in brown, stringy strands. He crossed his arms and squared off with Sam. Neither noticed that Dean was awake.

"So, what are you saying, exactly?" Sam asked, his eyes never leaving Iggy's face.

"Look," Iggy's voice dropped an octave and Dean closed his eyes so that he could hear him better. "Virgil said you guys needed my help, said you were good guys."

"We do," Sam said. "We are."

"So, what's the deal with the magical healing brother, then?"

_Magic?_ Dean wasn't sure he heard him right.

"His bones are starting to heal between x-rays. That shit just don't happen," the voice continued.

Suddenly, Dean got it. Brenna's tonic. It had to be. She said that it wouldn't heal him, but that it would help. Apparently, it was helping more than even Brenna knew. The effects had worn off long ago, but somehow, subtly in his body, it was working. He opened his eyes, looking directly at Sam. Sam shifted his eyes to the side, missing Dean's glance. Dean recognized Sam's expression. He was searching for a viable answer.

"He's always been a quick healer," Sam tried. "We have a tough job. Dean, he, um, he gets hurt a lot."

"Saw the scars," Iggy shot back.

"Well, then you know," Sam nodded.

"Know what? That your brother is accident prone?"

Dean swallowed as Iggy dropped his arms, stepping toward Sam. Sam didn't move, stayed leaning against the wall. The only recognition that Iggy had made a move toward him reflected in his eyes. Dean almost grinned at Sam's moxy.

"He's not accident prone," Sam replied coldly. "He got hurt saving someone. Saving me."

_Aw, Sammy._ Dean looked away from Sam, knowing the words weren't true, knowing that in fact, Sam had saved _him_. He hadn't been able to keep Jack away. He'd known the moment he'd lost that fight. But Sam… Sam wouldn't let him go. Dean had felt that punch of power from his brother seconds before darkness claimed him. If it hadn't been for Sam, Jack would have won.

Dean shifted his eyes around the room. It was small, one window to the left of his bed, Sam, Iggy, and the door to the right. The walls were wood paneled and even with the light on and the curtains pulled they gave the room a shadowed appearance. It looked almost like they were at someone's house, rather than a hospital. He looked back over at Sam and Iggy.

"Virgil brings you two here – you both have stab wounds, your throat's cut, he's literally beat to hell. I mean, dude, where the _hell_ did all those bruises come from? And not to mention the girl…" Dean watched as Iggy tucked his long hair behind his ears, shaking his head. "No explanation. No nothing."

"Sina—er, Virgil said that you would be cool with that. That you, uh, cover for guys in the clinic all the time."

"Yeah," Iggy nodded. "Guys who are seriously messed up. Guys who have seen combat. Guys who have been to the edge."

Sam straightened up from the wall, stepping forward. "My brother is all of those things. And even if he's healing faster than normal, he still needs your help."

Iggy sighed. "I ain't kicking you out. I just need to know what I'm dealing with."

"Sam," Dean rasped. His voice echoed back to him inside of the mask. He reached up and pulled it away from his mouth.

Sam's eyes shot over to Dean's face and he stepped up to the bed immediately.

"Hey! Hey, Dean," Sam grinned, his dimples showing. "Man, it's good to see you."

"'happened?" Dean managed.

"If you're gonna talk, kid, you need to keep this on," Iggy said, shifting the oxygen mask back over Dean's mouth.

Dean felt a vague sense of claustrophobia with the mask back on, but allowed it. Truthfully, it was easier to breathe with it in place. The heaviness in his chest hadn't eased. He looked at Sam's neck.

"You okay?"

Sam nodded. "Got about fifteen stitches."

"Shoulder?"

"Oh, yeah, they, um, had to fix it. Again," Sam looked down at his arm. "Finally talked me into a sling."

Dean nodded.

"How's the head feel, kid?" Iggy asked, shining a pen light into Dean's right then left eye.

"Like a cracked egg," Dean swallowed.

"No surprise there," Iggy stepped back, crossing his arms. Dean could see the figure of a naked woman with the words _Lust 4 Life_ along the length of her thigh tattooed on his forearm. "You have a pretty severe concussion. I'm gonna ask you to remember some stuff for me. I want you to repeat it back to me whenever you wake up."

"Carrot, diamond, toaster, and shoe," Dean said, lifting heavy eyes to meet Iggy's pale brown ones.

"You've been through this before, I see," Iggy lifted a brow, making his face appear even thinner.

"Once or twice," Dean reached up to pull the oxygen mask away, and Iggy neatly blocked his hand.

"You broke seven ribs on your right side, kid," Iggy said. "One of those bad boys punctured your lung. Your brother's got you beat in the stab wound department, seeing as how his goes all the way through, but you got ten stitches in your shoulder and a couple in your chest where we had to repair your lung. And you're pretty much a Smurf with this bruising."

"Was always more of a Gargamel fan myself," Dean said.

"You would be," Sam said, his eyes never leaving Dean's face.

"I don't know how much of this conversation you heard, but quick healer or not, you're gonna be sticking around for awhile," Iggy said, his arms crossed, eyebrow raised, daring Dean to contradict him.

At the moment, though, Dean didn't have the energy to blink, let alone fight to get out of the bed. He shifted on the bed, trying unsuccessfully to ease the ache in his chest and shoulder. He remembered feeling the fire, feeling it consume him. He winced slightly as a wave of heat rolled over him, leaving him dizzy. He saw Iggy's eyes shift focus, his features soften.

"How's the pain?"

Dean swallowed. He looked at Sam, then back at Iggy. "It's up there," Dean confessed.

"Feel like you're breathing through a straw?"

"Not anymore."

"Chest heavy?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," Iggy nodded. He looked over at Sam, then back at Dean. "I'll be back."

Iggy left the room. Dean looked at Sam.

"How long?"

"A little over eighteen hours now," Sam said.

"Sam," Dean pulled the oxygen mask away from his mouth and nose. "We need to… take care of Declan."

"I know."

"Where's Brenna?"

"Sleeping in the next room."

"She okay?"

At this, Sam's eyes shifted away. Dean narrowed his focus.

"What is it?"

"Physically, she's gonna be fine," Sam said. "Bruised face, split lip. Nothing big."

"Yeah, and?"

"She, um…" Sam pulled his bottom lip in, looking back at Dean. "She reminds me of you, man. After Dad…"

Dean pulled his eyebrows together when Sam's voice trailed off. "What, Sam?"

"Before…" Sam ran his hand through his hair. "Before Oregon, you were so cut off. You barely looked at me. And nothing I said made a difference. Not really."

Dean looked away.

"But, you're my brother," Sam continued. "I knew I'd eventually find a way. Brenna, though…"

"She not talking?"

Sam shook his head.

"Give her time," Dean said as Iggy walked back into the room.

"Dude, seriously," Iggy shook his head, putting the oxygen mask back on Dean's face. "Am I gonna have to duct tape this thing to your face?"

Suppressing the urge to grin, Dean shook his head.

"What part of punctured lung don't you get?"

"I'll keep it on," Dean muttered.

"You'd better," Iggy held up a syringe, squirted out a small bit of the liquid, then inserted it into Dean's IV. "Or no more happy juice."

Dean felt the drug burn slightly as it entered his system through the IV in his arm.

"You're gonna feel better here shortly," Iggy promised. "I'll come back to check on you."

Dean could feel the effects of the drug take hold, slide through his body like mercury, calming the ache in his head, easing the hot pain in his shoulder, relieving the pressure in his chest. He felt his eyes grow heavy and looked over at Sam.

"Sam," he murmured, his breath clouding the oxygen mask. "Take care of it."

Sam tilted his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"Declan," Dean said, closing his eyes. "Take care of it."

He never heard Sam's reply.

www

"…wanted you to know it was done… I'll have to tell you this again when you're awake, but… I just needed to talk to you, man… couldn't wait until you woke up…"

Dean didn't open his eyes. Didn't move. His hearing always seemed to be the first sense that returned him to light from the safety of oblivion. The hunter in him was glad of that – it had saved him on more than one occasion. The brother in him ached for the pain he heard in Sam's voice.

"I'd almost forgotten, y'know? Can you believe that? Forgotten what it had been like to take Dad from the hospital. To… build that pyre. To look at his face when we wrapped him up and then… when you lit the wood… you were so… you looked as dead as Dad, man. You barely blinked. I felt like screaming. I felt like I _was_ screaming. And you were… God, you were empty. I knew that it was what Dad wanted. I know we did the right thing. But I can't help but think about the way that fire ate him up… how it wrapped around his body… and even though he was already gone… it… man, it felt like the fire took him from us. Not the demon."

Dean swallowed. He realized that he no longer had the oxygen mask on his face. He wanted to make Sam stop. It hurt to hear these memories. It pulled images into his mind that he never wanted to think about again. But Sam… Sam needed to talk. It had been his brother's way of dealing with problems since he was little. So, Dean stayed silent, stayed still.

"It wasn't the same with Declan. I mean, it was and it wasn't. Brenna, man, she… she pretty much did it all. I couldn't move my arm, and she… she surprised me. She didn't cry. Not once. Not one tear. And that made me think of you, too. What you said when I asked you if he said anything to you… how you sounded. Dean, I, uh, I know you lied to me then. But, I know why you did, too…"

Dean heard Sam take a shaky breath, and he held his own breath in reaction, waiting for Sam's next words.

"Dean, I told you… I asked you to let me take some of your burden. To let me help you carry it. But… I don't know, man. I don't know if I can handle this. I don't know what to do with this… knowing that Dad made you promise to kill me if you couldn't…"

Dean tightened his jaw, wanting to open his eyes then, but finding it nearly impossible to do so. He knew he was slipping back, slipping away from Sam, and he wanted Sam to stop talking. He didn't want to hear anymore. But he couldn't stop listening.

"I need you to save me, Dean," Sam's voice was barely a whisper. "All my life, I've watched you do what Dad told you. I've looked to you for… God, for everything. But I think that if you can't save me, I mean, if it's really bad… I think this might be one order you won't obey. And, man, I _need_ you to. I have to know that you'll do this…"

Dean wanted to cover his ears. He couldn't hear this. He didn't want to know. He wasn't going to fail. He _couldn't_ fail. He would save Sam. Or die trying. Because he meant what he'd said in the cabin. He didn't want to come back just to lose his brother. He didn't want to do this without Sam.

"Man, I'm tired," he heard Sam sigh. "But it's done. The job. All of it. So, wake up, okay? Iggy said you're healing faster than normal. Doesn't surprise me, really. You never do things normal. So, go on and wake up and let's get Brenna and just… just go."

Sam's words echoed Dean's soul. Dean never wanted to stay in one place too long. It was too easy to develop attachments, and attachments made it hard to go when leaving was the only option. But that was _him_, not Sam. Sam had always wanted a base, an anchor. Before. Dean swallowed and thought about opening his eyes. Thought of looking at Sam, just to make sure _Sam_ was still there.

He felt the bed shift slightly near his right hand and instinctively knew that Sam had rested his head on the bed. At least he still had that. Even if John's death had affected both of them in ways he was just starting to see, at least Sam was still close. Keeping his eyes closed, he slowly released the breath he'd been holding while listening to his brother. The darkness was waiting for him, waiting to hold onto him just a little longer. Oddly comforted by the closeness of his brother, he let him self fall back to it.

www

"Four things?"

"Where's Sam?"

"Four things."

"Sam."

"He's sleeping in the next room."

"Carrot, diamond, toaster, and shoe," Dean muttered as Iggy shined the pen light into his eyes again. He was propped up on the bed, several pillows bracing his back and keeping his ribs steady. He could smell patchouli again as Iggy moved, checking his vitals.

"Good," Iggy nodded. "You keep this up, I'll let that brother of yours take you out of here tomorrow."

Dean lifted a brow. "Seriously?"

"Well, you're not going to be running any marathons anytime soon. In fact, you're probably not going to be doing much of anything but sitting and breathing," Iggy said, his brow raised again. He let out a sigh. "Truth is, kid, you've been here four days, and you're mending. Mending faster than I've ever seen before. This is a clinic, not a hospital, and I just can't keep you here."

Dean lifted his left hand in a gesture of surrender. "No complaints here, man."

Iggy nodded, checked Dean's IV, humming. He nodded again and turned to go. At the doorway he paused and looked back at Dean.

"So what is it?"

"What is what?" Dean asked, his brows pulled together in confusion.

"What is it that you do?"

Dean rolled his neck. "You really want to know, man?"

"I asked Sam, he went all existential on me. Asked Virgil and he just said you were the good guys and left it at that. Like that means anything these days."

Dean leveled his eyes on the slim man's cadaverous face. "We hunt evil."

Iggy stared at him. "Come again?"

"We hunt evil. Ghosts, demons… wraiths, you name it."

Iggy's eyebrows slowly rose. Dean nodded.

"We hunt it, take it out, and try to save as many people as we can."

Iggy shook his head, turning away. "If you didn't want to tell me, all you had to do was say so, dude," he said.

He stepped back slightly to allow Brenna space to enter the room, then left the room, singing to himself as he did so.

"_There's a real mean world outside where many lives are lost, but struggle builds character, and we are growing soft…"_

Dean watched Brenna walk across the room toward the window. She set a plastic bag down on the floor, and looked out of the window.

"I don't think he believed me," he said.

"Well," she answered, not looking back at him, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. "Would you if you were him?"

Dean huffed out a breath. "Good question."

He watched her out of the corner of his eyes. She wore the same jeans and boots he'd seen on her in the bar, but she had on one of his grey Henley's, the sleeves rolled several times to her wrists, the bottom tied in a knot at her waist. It took him a minute to register that she had lost everything when the house burned. She rubbed the back of her head, ruffling her short hair. He turned his head to see her more fully. His shirt made her look tiny.

"I went back to the house today," she said, still looking out of the window. "There's nothing left."

He looked down. "I'm sorry, Brenna." He kept his chin down, lifting his eyes to rest on her, noting by the set of her shoulders that she was holding herself very carefully… as if she might break. "I am."

"Yeah, me, too," she said. "The car is gone," she said. Then looked over her shoulder at him quickly. "Mine, not yours."

Dean let out a quick breath of relief.

"When we… had Declan's, um, funeral," she said, turning back to the window. "It was dark. I hadn't been able to see anything."

Dean stayed silent. Sam had said Brenna hadn't been talking. He knew from experience that if you decide today's the day it all comes out, and one person stops you, then you never get back to that point. And it stays inside of you forever. He would wait for her.

"Sinatra took me today. Sam didn't want to leave you," she continued. "Guess he fell asleep, though. Iggy and Sinatra moved him to the other room."

Dean frowned. He knew he had been there for four days; he wondered how many of them Sam had stayed awake, watching, waiting.

"I think the fire was worse because of my… because of the, um, potions."

_I wondered about that…_

"They aren't designed to burn, really. Even the ones that heal. They're, well… a bit explosive in nature."

She shoved her hands into her hair, tucking short tufts behind her ears, then turning to look at him. The sun from the window lit her hair and cast her face in shadow. Dean could see the bruising still on her cheek and around her mouth from where Danny's fist had struck her. Anger flashed, quick and bright, inside of him.

"I did find one thing," she said, stepping up to him. "It kinda figures that it was the only thing the fire didn't take."

"What?"

She bent and picked up the plastic bag. Reaching in, she drew out the Ardagh.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered in wonder.

"Yep." Brenna turned the gold chalice around in her hand, her large eyes scanning it. "I think I'm gonna give it to the local Catholic church. It belongs somewhere safe."

"A church is safe?"

She looked up at him. "It is when it's not abandoned and guarded by a wraith."

Dean pressed his lips together, saying nothing.

"They would have… would have used it to kill more people," she said softly, her eyes on the glittering emerald in the stem of the cup. "I think enough people have died, don't you?"

Dean nodded. He felt an ache in his heart. It was familiar, and hollow, but this time, it wasn't for him. He felt it for Brenna. For what she'd lost. For where she would have to go, what she would have to do now that everything was gone – her home, her possessions, her family. She had lost everything, and Brenna didn't have Sam. _Who are you when I'm not here, Dean?_

"You were right, you know."

He tilted his head. "About what?"

"It doesn't go away." Her voice was soft and he watched her drop the cup into the plastic bag, then drop the bag onto the floor again. She stepped toward his bed, not touching it, not touching him, but close enough that if he were to reach out…

"It doesn't go away," she repeated, her eyes down. "It sneaks up on you. It takes you when you least expect it."

"I know," he whispered. Brenna once said that she heard too much when it was quiet. He knew exactly what she meant: he heard his Dad. He heard words spoken so softly that they screamed in his head.

"How do you… how do you keep going?" She lifted her eyes to meet his and he clenched his jaw in reaction to the raw pain in her dry eyes.

He pressed his lips together and shook his head once. "I don't know, Brenna," he said. "You just do. You decide what is worth it to you, and you hold on to that."

"What is worth it to you, Dean?"

Dean's eyes shifted to the wall across from the foot of his bed, thinking automatically about Sam. Brenna followed his gaze and her lips thinned. She nodded and looked down.

"Little things," he said. Her head shot up and she looked at him.

"What?"

"Little things are worth it to me," he said, surprising himself. He didn't know where the words were coming from, but he knew they were true. "Sam, he's… he's the reason I do what I do, but… it's things like driving the Impala, or drinking a beer on a cool night, or, God, I don't know… getting a hot chick's phone number."

"Nice," she shook her head.

"I'm just saying… life. Life is worth it to me."

"You have all those things because you have Sam," she said, her eyes on his face. He didn't reply. "What if there was no Sam?"

Dean couldn't help it. He went cold. It was such an automatic reaction that he didn't have time to quell it, to focus on her and what she was trying to ask him.

"Whoa, hey," she started to reach out a hand to him, but stopped herself just shy of touching him. "I didn't mean—"

"No, it's okay," Dean gave her a shaky version of his cocky grin. "Must be the patchouli getting to me."

She nodded, and started to drop her hand. Dean reached out without thinking and grabbed her slim fingers. Her hand was cool, her skin soft. He instantly remembered the feel of her hand on his face in the truck. He remembered thinking it felt like coming home.

"Brenna, listen," Dean tightened his fingers around hers. "You're the one with the magic, here. Not me. I don't have any answers for you. I wish to God I did."

Brenna nodded, her jaw working back and forth. She didn't meet his eyes and she didn't remove her hand.

"You just have to get up every day and you have to decide what you're gonna fight for," he said.

"Is that what you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"When you wake up and think that you can't do this anymore… do you decide what you're gonna fight for?"

Her question was soft, but it hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. "You – you saw that?"

She nodded.

"What else did you see?" He asked, his voice hard. He tightened his grip on her hand, drawing her eyes.

"I saw her tell you about John," she said, her voice thick. "I saw her tell you she could give him back to you."

Dean swallowed. It had been so tempting. It had almost felt right.

"Dean?"

"What?" he snapped.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I don't make deals with demons," he said, staring at the white blanket across his lap.

"Your Dad did," she said.

"I'm not my Dad," he said softly. Then he looked over at her. "And that's why he did what he did. That's why he… why he told me what he did. Why he made me promise…"

"What do you mean?"

It was a realization that seemed murky at first, but as he worked through it, it blinded him with its clarity. "He knew more than he told me… he… he had to have known for awhile what could happen to Sam." He didn't realize he was still holding Brenna's hand. That he was clenching it tighter as his eyes darted in thought, as he began to understand. "He knew he wouldn't be able to do it. If it came down to it, I think Dad knew he couldn't save Sam."

"Are you saying that he would have told you that about Sam, made you promise what he did, no matter what? Even if he hadn't, um… died?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Maybe."

They were silent for a moment. Dean realized that he was gripping her hand and released it. She didn't pull away. Just let her hand lay in his, a comfortable closeness.

"He had a lot of faith in you, Dean," she whispered.

Dean jerked his head up. "What?"

"He believed in you," she said, meeting his eyes. "Not just for this either. He believed in you. Period."

Dean blinked at her. He wanted to believe that. He wanted that to be true. But… there were so many times… so many memories where he didn't think he lived up to his dad's expectations. _You can't lie to her…Brenna sees the truth…_

"You're not messing with me," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Not about this," she said. "Never about this."

John had believed in him. _What do I do with that now?_

"Um, kid," called Iggy from the doorway.

Dean turned to face him, aware that Brenna straightened at the sound of his voice. He hadn't realized how close she'd been to him.

"Yeah?"

"There are some cops here," Iggy said.

_Shit_. Dean bit his lip, his eyes darting to the wall that separated the two rooms.

"How'd they find us?"

"They aren't here for you," Iggy said. He lifted his eyes to Brenna. "They want to talk to you."

Dean looked up at Brenna, his eyebrows raised.

"About what?" she asked, plainly surprised.

"Said they found the guys that burned your house and beat you up."

Brenna looked at Dean. He shrugged. "You told Sinatra to check Jack's ID…"

"Damn, that's right," she said. "I did." She looked at him, surprised. "You were half-dead; how'd you remember that?"

"Sweetheart, you haven't scratched the surface of my skills," he pulled the corner of his mouth into a grin.

Brenna's lips quirked. She looked back at Iggy, who was shaking his head at them. "I'll meet them out front."

www

"Cops move pretty quick in this town," Sam commented, his feet propped up on Dean's bed, his arm cradled against him. He had been slouched in the chair next to Dean's bed for better part of the day. He'd threatened to tie Dean to the bed if he tried to get up before Iggy cleared him, and Dean knew he'd make good on that threat by the look on his face.

"Guess it's a good thing we did, too, huh?" Dean asked. "They track her down here through Sinatra?"

His IV and catheter had been removed first thing that morning. He was sitting up, resting against the pillows, his left leg bent and tucked under his right. Iggy had switched him from IV meds to pills the night before and he was itching to leave. He could feel the pull of the stitches in his shoulder, and if he blinked wrong his ribs reminded him that they weren't whole, but Sam had been right. They'd been in one place too long. He needed to… to move.

"Yeah," Sam shook his head. "Brenna had to get pretty creative, though. I think we've corrupted her."

Dean shook his head with a grin. "We didn't start anything that wasn't there to begin with."

Sam smiled. "Hook, line, and sinker, man."

Dean slid his eyes over to his brother. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You are sunk, Dean. She's got you."

"Whatever," Dean shook his head. "Nobody's got me."

"If you say so," Sam didn't bother to hide his grin. His dimples annoyed Dean.

"I say so, all right?"

At that, Sam actually laughed.

"Shut up," Dean shook his head, looking away. "How did she explain being at this clinic and not like… a hospital or something?"

"Ah, that's the funny part – she didn't have to."

Dean tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"Iggy said she was his niece."

"Are you kiddin' me?"

"Nope. Said she was his niece, she was staying with him, and if they had any more questions for her, they could contact him," Sam's lips pressed together in a satisfied smile.

"Why did he do that?"

"What, people can't just be nice? Can't just do the right thing?"

Dean shook his head. "Not generally."

Sam ignored him, continuing. "She told the cops how Eamon's crew had been threatening her, claimed not to know what they were talking about, went into really vivid detail about how they killed her grandfather and how she suspected they stole his body from the morgue…"

"Good thinking," Dean nodded.

"Yeah, and she told them about the fight at the bar – conveniently leaving out that anyone else was there. Told them how Jack turned on Eamon's boys, and they turned on Jack and ended with an _I don't know how I got out of there alive_. It was pretty impressive."

"She use tears?"

"Bucket's of 'em."

"Good girl," Dean grinned. "They gonna come back?"

"Said they would when they found Declan's body," Sam said, a mock sympathetic frown on his face. "Poor bastards."

Dean smiled at his brother, shaking his head.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Eamon's still out there."

"Yeah, I know."

"You think they'll find him? The cops I mean?"

Dean chewed on his bottom lip in thought. "I think he's too good for that, Sam. He's been doing this for a long time. I don't think he makes too many mistakes."

"Sure made one with Jack."

"Yeah, well…" Dean lifted a shoulder, looking at Sam. "That ended up working out okay for us."

"Not for Brenna," Sam said looking down.

"Where is she now?"

"Sinatra took her into town," Sam said, glancing over his shoulder as Iggy stepped into the room. "She was gonna get some clothes and stuff I think."

"I think she looks pretty cute in those oversized shirts, myself," Iggy said.

"Dude, she's your niece," Dean retorted. "That's just sick."

"You want out of here, hotshot?"

"More than you'll ever know," Dean replied.

"No driving, take your meds, and lay off this job of yours for at least two weeks," Iggy pointed a thin, brown finger at Dean.

Dean frowned. "No driving?"

"Kid, you may be the fastest healer I've ever seen, but seven broken ribs and a punctured lung is nothing to mess around with," Iggy lifted an eyebrow. "Not to mention your shoulder and a concussion. Believe me, you're not gonna feel like driving. And if you so much as get rear-ended, the impact could –"

"We get the idea," Sam interrupted.

Dean looked at him. Sam was slightly pale above the white bandage on his neck. Dean frowned in sympathy. Sam had been the only one to wake up in the Impala after the semi hit them. He couldn't imagine what it had looked like to Sam, seeing his father and brother covered in blood and unconscious.

"Got you," Dean said, still looking at Sam. "No driving."

Iggy nodded, tossed two bottles of pills to Sam, who caught them impressively with his left hand, and with a two fingered salute, walked out of the room.

"I brought you some clothes," Sam said.

"Thanks."

"You need help this time?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean snapped. "But don't go far."

Sam nodded with a sly smile. "You know, maybe after this we give ourselves a break," Sam said.

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know… you wanted to go to the Grand Canyon… maybe we go to the ocean or something it's—"

"No." Dean shook his head once. "No ocean."

"I was just saying that it's close," Sam said, his eyebrows up in surprise.

"No ocean, Sam. Besides, what about Ava?"

Sam nodded, looking perplexed, but didn't push further.

"How are we getting out of here," Dean panted a bit as he buttoned his jeans and reached for his T-shirt.

"Sinatra said he'd come back for us," Sam answered. "He'll take us to Brenna's. She said to stay in their motel. She'd be back after she took care of some stuff in town."

Dean nodded, carefully pulling on his shirt, then his leather jacket, and then immediately wanted to climb back into bed and lie down. Instead, he lifted his hand, flicking his fingers toward the door.

"Let's do this thing," he said.

www

Dean breathed slowly, deeply, the whole way to the motel attached to the Kavanagh bar. It's such a simple thing, breathing. So common it happens without thought. Until it was taken away from him. Sam had been quiet for most of the drive; his occasional glances and questions to check on Dean were to be expected. Sinatra was silent. As they turned into the dirt lot, Sam let out a low whistle.

"I didn't see this in the daylight," he said as they surveyed the ruined house.

"There really isn't anything left," Dean said, his eyes dropping to the burned-out hull of Brenna's Grande National. "Where's—"

"It's around back, behind the bar," Sam said. "She hid it in a clump of trees."

"You two gonna be okay?" Sinatra said. "I want to get back to Brenna."

Dean eased out of the truck, leaning slightly on the door. "Oh, really?"

He saw Sam look over at him.

Sinatra frowned. "She's been through a lot," he said. "She might need some help."

Dean felt a muscle in his jaw jump as he clenched his teeth. He took a moment to breathe, then nodded. "You're right, man."

He closed the door of the truck and turned to face the motel, not missing Sam's look as Sinatra pulled out of the lot and gunned the engine back toward town.

"What?" he snapped at Sam.

"Nothing," Sam shook his head, but his face revealed his lie.

"I told you, Sam," Dean said. "I'm not staying. It's not right to act like I even could."

"I think you might want to ask her if that matters," Sam said. Dean shot him a look and Sam raised his hands in mock surrender. "That's all I'm saying," he said, waving his fingers slightly.

Dean started to walk toward the motel, seeing the plywood piece blocking the opened doorway to the bar, police tape across it. For a reason that he couldn't quite put his finger on, he abruptly changed his direction and headed to the door. He pulled the police tape down and stared at the door for a moment. Sighing, he took a step back and braced himself.

"What the hell?" Sam was at his side instantly.

Dean looked at him blankly.

"You were seriously gonna kick this door in?"

"You see any other way into the bar?"

"We're not going into the bar, Dean, we're going to the motel so you can rest."

"I'm rested. I need to see the bar."

"Why?"

Dean sighed again, feeling his shoulders drop, then straightened and looked at Sam. "Because I need to see where he died."

"Who, Jack?"

Dean nodded.

"Is there more to that story than what you told me in the cabin, Dean?"

"Not really," Dean shook his head, looking away. He felt Sam's eyes on him, but focused his attention on the door.

"Fine," he heard Sam say one moment before Sam's foot plowed through the plywood, practically blasting it from the nails that held it in place.

"Damn, Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, instinctively lifting his arms to block his face.

"What?"

Dean looked at his brother, then grinned. "You been holding out on me, man."

Sam grinned back and lifted a shoulder. "I learned from the best."

They stepped into the bar. Sam held back as Dean moved further into the bar, looking at the bloodstains on the floor, looking at the place where Jack had died. He stood still a moment, thinking, remembering. He wondered what his Dad would have said about Jack's death. He wondered what his Dad would have said about this whole case. John never had been much for politics. But all Dean could see as he looked at the bloodstains was the cost of freedom.

"You think Declan knew?"

Dean didn't lift his head. "Knew what?"

"About Jack. About Dad."

Dean shook his head. "Nah. He didn't know. He was just following orders. They all were."

"He said you would have made a good soldier," Sam said softly, his voice close to Dean.

"Who did?"

"Eamon," Sam replied.

"He's right," Dean said. "If there's one thing I know how to do," Dean lifted his eyes and looked directly at Sam. "It's to follow orders."

Sam paled slightly and swallowed. He looked away, his jaw working. Dean watched his brother a moment longer.

"Hey Sam?"

Sam looked back at him.

"You think that this… all this," Dean gestured to the floor, and then back behind him to the shattered bottles and broken bar mirror. "You think it was… I don't know… _meant_ to happen?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, what are the odds that the same person who ruined Brenna's life was connected to us?" Dean slid his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "I mean, what if we hadn't come. Do you think she would have been in as much… danger?" _If there's a choice with destiny, is there a choice with fate? Where is the line drawn… when does it become inevitable… at what point am I not responsible for someone's pain? _

"Well," Sam said, his words slow, measured. "I think it was out of our hands the minute you heard that message."

Dean lifted his head.

"I think you heard that a friend needed help, and it wouldn't have mattered if Dad had been here, we still would have come. Because you had to."

Dean shifted his eyes away, resting them on nothing, thinking. _Shoot first, ask questions later… always moving, never still… compelled to do something… is it always the best thing? Is it the right thing? How do I know? Who's gonna tell me that I did the right thing? Who's gonna tell me that there was nothing else I could do… Dad's gone. He's gone… and Sam…_

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. "What about you, Sam?"

Sam grinned sadly at him. "I go where you go, Dean. Gotta be around to be a pain in your ass, right?"

Dean breathed out a laugh. "Yeah, I guess so." _Damn right, you need to be around. I don't want to do this without you… I can. I know that now. I can do this without you. But I don't want to. It's only worth it because of you._

"And I think," Sam continued, turning from the blood stained floor and heading back to the rear of the bar. "That there is such a thing as coincidence, but…" His voice faded away.

Dean watched him go to the back room, waited a beat, then called, "Sam?"

Sam reemerged with two six-packs of beer. Dean lifted his eyebrows in twin inverted Vs.

"This one was a helluva coincidence," Sam said. nodding to the spot on the floor covered by Jack's blood.

"Think Iggy would approve?" Dean asked.

Sam continued past him toward the door and Dean followed, glad to be free of his dark thoughts, released from the memories that spawned more questions than answers. _Why's a crooked letter that no one's been able to straighten out._

"I think Iggy had a different idea of mellowing out," Sam said over his shoulder.

Dean chuckled. "Dude, did you smell that patchouli?"

www

_Dean –_

_I had this with me, but didn't think Iggy could handle more magical healing… mix it with water, stir counter clockwise – just do it, don't ask questions – and drink the whole thing. It won't fix you completely, but it will help._

_Brenna_

"I don't think anything can fix you completely," Sam said as he read the note.

Dean held his breath, gulped the bitter-tasting tonic, then shuddered. "Nasty," he said.

"Think it helps?"

"I do now," Dean said. "After Iggy."

"Man, I'm beat," Sam sighed, sitting heavily on the bed furthest from the door. He held his second bottle of beer loosely in his fingers and dropped his head heavily between his shoulders.

"How's your neck?" Dean asked, eyeing Sam's weary form.

"Sore, but I'll live," Sam replied.

Dean stepped over to him, took the beer from his loose fingers and set it on the nightstand. He gently pushed at Sam's shoulder until his brother started to tip back on the bed.

"Hey, wait," Sam protested. "You're the one just out of the hospital here."

"Wasn't a hospital," Dean said, pushing harder until Sam lay back on the pillows. "It was a clinic. And I'm fine."

"Not fine," Sam mumbled, trying to push himself up again.

"Sam," Dean said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I promised to take it easy, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Sam said, narrowing his eyes cautiously.

"So trust me, okay? Get some rest," Dean reached down and pulled Sam's right boot off.

Sam pushed him away and removed the other one. "What time is it?"

Dean looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. "Almost eight."

"I'll just rest for an hour, okay?" Sam lay down on the bed, rolling over onto his left side and pulling the pillow down so that he could burrow his face into it. He was asleep in seconds.

"Sure thing, Sammy," Dean said softly. He sat on the bed opposite Sam, watching his brother sleep. For so long, it had been where he found his peace. Until Sam's visions, until the nightmares. When Sam slept, the world was safe for a moment, and Dean could breathe easy.

He started to lie back against the bed, but the tonic was working through his system and he suddenly found that he couldn't stay still. He looked at Sam once more, then grabbed two bottles of beer and slipped quietly out of the room, locking it behind him. He moved carefully, judging the pull of his stitches, the ache of his ribs, the sting of the stitches in his side. All were practically non-existent at the moment. He rounded the corner and saw the clump of trees Sam had been talking about.

The sun had set and a gray-blue hue was cast over the earth. Dean looked up as he walked and saw that the moon was nearly full. It was still a soft orange color as it rose – reflecting off of the dying light of the sun. Soon it would illuminate everything he saw… including his car.

"Hey, baby," Dean said in a low voice, running his free hand over the sleek black trunk, and keeping his fingers in contact with the body of the car as he made his way up to the driver's door. The metal of the car retained the heat from the day; he felt the warmth pull through his fingers and travel up his arm.

He opened the driver's side door, thankful that it was unlocked, and slid carefully behind the wheel. Sighing deeply, he leaned back, resting the bottle on the steering wheel. He looked at the radio. A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. When Sam had left for Stanford, Dean spent many evenings sitting in his car, listening to music, feeling the familiarity of home wrap around him. He looked in the ignition, then kicked the floor mat loose, then pulled down the visor. The keys fell neatly into his lap.

"Atta girl," Dean said, thinking of Brenna.

He turned the keys until the battery engaged, then started spinning the dial on the radio station. He paused at the end of Kansas' _Dust in the Wind_ and twisted off the cap of one bottle. Taking a long pull on the beer, he started spinning the dial again. He wanted something familiar. He wanted something that held him. He leaned forward and grabbed a cassette from the box on the floor.

Popping it in, he leaned back and took another drink of beer.

"_Spent my days with a woman unkind, smoked my stuff and drank all my wine. Made up my mind to make a new start, going to California with an aching in my heart…"_

"That's the stuff," he sighed. Turning up the radio, he grabbed the unopened bottle of beer and stepped out of the car, leaving the driver's door open. He went to the back of the car, and stepped up, hooking the heels of his boots on the bumper and settling himself on the trunk. He sat for a moment watching the moon rise and listening to Zeppelin, his mind blissfully blank for a change.

He felt her before he saw her. He felt her eyes. He looked down from the moon and saw Brenna walking toward him across the empty lot, her legs and feet bare, wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts, the throat open to the third button, the hem hitting her just above the knee. His mouth went dry.

"Hey," she said, stepping up to him.

"Hey yourself," he answered, trying to keep his eyes steady, trying to resist devouring her in a glance.

"You got a spare?" she tilted her head to the beer in his hand. He handed her the unopened bottle. She wrapped the end of the shirt around the top and twisted it off.

"Sinatra get you all straightened out?" Dean asked.

Brenna took a drink and nodded. "He met back up with me in town. Nice guy."

"I'll bet," Dean shook his head and tipped his head back to take another swig from his bottle.

"I sold the place."

Dean's eyebrows went up. "What?"

"Sold it – land, bar, motel, even that wreck of a house," she said. "Used the money for clothes and transportation."

"Huh," Dean tipped his head back. _That_ probably hadn't sat well with Sinatra. He suppressed a grin. "You know where you're going?"

She shook her head. "Not a clue. But… I didn't know where I was going before, either. I was just… going."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I can get that."

"_Throw me a line if I reach it in time, I'll meet you up there where the path runs straight and high…"_

"Sam okay?" she asked.

"He's sleeping."

"Shouldn't you be doing the same thing?" she took another drink and Dean watched as she pulled her bottom lip into her mouth.

"I'm okay," Dean pressed his lips together, unable to take his eyes from her mouth.

"You took the tonic, right?"

"Yeah," he nodded.

She smiled. "Good. It will help."

Dean stared at her. She deserved better. She deserved more. He didn't even know if he'd come out of this fight alive…

"Are we as screwed up as I think we are?" he asked her softly.

"Yeah," she nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"You know what we have to do, Sam and me," Dean said.

"Dean," she said, lifting her eyes to his. The moon was high and reflected in her eyes. "You don't even know what you have to do. Not really. You said it yourself. You just get up every day and find something that's worth it for you."

"That can't be you," he whispered. "Not now."

"I never said I wanted it to be," she replied, stepping closer. "I know what Sam means to you, Dean. I know he's your balance. I know he's your innocence." She put her hand on his thigh, her legs against the bumper of the Impala. "I care about you too much to change that."

Dean heard the deep, bluesy rhythm coming from the radio. The drums beat in time with his heart, and the guitars sent chills down his arms. He dropped his now empty beer bottle to the ground, his eyes on Brenna. He felt his blood heat up, felt the familiar, pleasant pull in his belly.

"_If it keeps on rainin', levees goin' to break, if it keeps on rainin', levees goin' to break. When the levee breaks I'll have no place to stay…"_

"Brenna," he started, his hands closing over her upper arms. "I don't know if—"

"Shut up," she interrupted. "Just shut up and for God's sake kiss me already."

He gripped her arms and she stepped up on the bumper with one leg, swinging the other across his lap. He held her tight and she gripped his thighs with hers, her mouth aiming directly for his. The touch of her lips set his skin on fire. He moved his hands from her arms to the sides of her face, burying his fingers in her hair and pulling her lips close.

She pulled his lower lip into her mouth, and he groaned low in his throat at the thrill of that sensation. He felt her fingers gripping at his jacket and, keeping his mouth on hers, he let go of her face and helped her pull the jacket from his shoulders. He wanted to feel her skin – he wanted to feel her softness, her curves. He wanted to feel them against him.

She was pulling at his T-shirt and he lifted his arms, letting her pull it over his head. The kiss broke as she did so and Dean reached for her face again, pulling her to him, biting her lip gently and breathing in her gasp of pleasure.

"_All last night sat on the levee and moaned, All last night sat on the levee and moaned, thinkin bout my baby and my happy home…"_

She moved away from his mouth and trailed her lips down his neck, then up to his earlobe, drawing it into her mouth and running her teeth lightly along it. His head fell back slightly and he closed his eyes with a groan. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his back, just below his shoulders. Even in the haze of pleasure, he noted that she remained aware of his injuries. He let go of her face and moved his hands to the buttons on her shirt. She grabbed his hand.

"Wait," she gasped, tossing a quick look over her shoulder. He pulled his lips in, panting, and followed her gaze. Sitting on the trunk of the Impala, they were within easy eyesight of the bar and motel.

"C'm here," he said, scooting off of the trunk and lowering her to the ground at the same time. Grabbing her hand he pulled her around to the back seat of the car. He opened the door and climbed in, pulling her with him.

"You okay to do this?" she asked, crawling carefully over him as he leaned back on the seat.

"Try to stop me," he said, tugging gently on the back of her hair and pulling her down toward him.

She kept her hands braced at first, keeping herself away from his body as best she could, but as he deepened the kiss, tickling the back of her teeth with this tongue, he felt her melt against him. He didn't stop to think about how this would feel in the morning, or if even her slight weight was doing damage to his healing ribs. He just let himself feel her, this, now.

She sat up and started to unbutton the shirt, sliding it off of her shoulders and revealing her body. He swallowed as the silver light of the moon cast a surreal glow across her chest and belly. He put his hands on her hip bones, slowly traveling his hands up her belly. He watched as she tipped her head back, letting her eyes close, letting herself feel, letting him hear what his touch did to her.

It was different this time, he knew. The first time he'd been with her had been a gift, an act of light against the dark in a hot New Orleans hotel room. The second time had been desperate, angry, a way to forget the hurt they were feeling if only for the moment. This… this was slow, soft, and more real than anything he'd allowed himself to feel beyond Sam, beyond his Dad. This wasn't a one-night encounter. This wasn't sex simply for the sake of pleasure. He felt himself lean into her, arch up to meet her.

He could see her – all of her. He felt the heat of her skin, the softness of her curves. Saw the way the pleasure of their connection washed over her face as she moved above him. Felt her hands caress his shoulders, his back, his chest as he sat up to hold her against him. Heard the harsh gasps for air – his and hers – mingle and meet, the rhythm matching the motion of their bodies. He tasted the sweetness of her kiss as she captured his mouth just as he tipped over the edge, falling, falling, landing in the protection of her arms.

He lay against the cool leather of the seat, Brenna wedged between his body and the back, her leg draped over his. The song had changed, he realized.

"_Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace, whose sounds caress my ear, but not a word I heard could I relate, the story was quite clear…"_

"I always loved this song," Brenna said against his ear. The feel of her breath made him want to shiver. "It's sexy."

"Is that a hint," he said, his voice a low rumble against the seat.

Brenna's laugh was throaty. "Take it easy," she said, tracing the outline of his lips with the tips of her fingers. "I don't want to break you. Your brother would kill me."

Dean closed his eyes contentedly and offered her a lazy grin.

"Wonder what this would be like when you're not damaged goods?" she said lightly.

"Aw, Brenna," Dean mumbled. "I'll always be damaged goods." He opened his eyes and turned his head to face her.

"You're gonna be hurting when you're an old man, you keep living this way," she said, pulling her eyebrows together.

He smiled sadly at her. "Who says I'm ever gonna be an old man?"

She didn't say anything to that, but leaned forward so that she could kiss him once more. He closed his eyes, allowing himself the pleasure of feeling her lips, feeling her press herself against him so that she could get close enough.

She lifted her face and he took in the swollen lips and the curve of her jaw. He met her eyes. Brenna's eyes, not her druid sight. She smiled at him and it curved up the corners of her eyes.

"Go to sleep, Dean," she whispered.

He didn't want to stop looking at her, but weariness began to pull at him.

"You're gonna leave, aren't you," he said, his eyes blinking closed.

She didn't say anything. She laid her head against his left shoulder, reaching around to rest her palm on the healing wound in his right shoulder. He felt himself relax by increments until he slept with Brenna as a blanket.

When he opened his eyes, she was gone.

www

"We can wait another day, Dean," Sam said, shoving the weapons bag into the back of the Impala. "She might come back."

"She's not coming back, Sam," Dean said, his jaw set. He knew why she'd left the way she did. Dammit, he was the one who said he wasn't going to stay. He had made that perfectly clear. He didn't blame her for leaving first. The person who leaves takes a piece of the person left behind with them. He didn't begrudge her that. He just wasn't sure how many pieces he had left.

"You just got out of the hosp—clinic yesterday," Sam continued as Dean looked back over at the bar. "We can rest another day."

"I don't want to rest another day," Dean said, not looking back at him. "If you're good to drive with one arm, I'm good to go."

"I can drive," Sam said, sounding slightly petulant.

"I'm sorry she didn't say goodbye to you, Sam," Dean said, meeting his brother's eyes over the top of the car.

"What?"

"Well, she's your friend, too," Dean said, lifting a shoulder. "I know you probably wanted to say goodbye."

Sam shook his head. "Do you even listen to yourself sometimes?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Brenna isn't just your friend, Dean," Sam said, leaning on the roof of the car.

Dean shook his head, cutting off anything else Sam could have said. "It doesn't matter, Sammy. It really doesn't. There are more important things to worry about right now." He looked out to the road outside of the dirt lot. "She'll be okay."

Sam sighed and climbed into the car muttering something that sounded like _yeah, but will you_ to Dean. He chose to ignore it, and slid into the passenger seat, wincing at the pull in his side. The tonic was effective at first, but it didn't last long enough. He pressed his hand to his right side. Sam noticed.

"You okay? Sleep funny last night or something?" Sam asked, concern in his eyes.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek. "Yeah, something like that."

Sam turned on the car, immediately ejecting the tape and turning down the radio. This time, Dean didn't complain. He kept his eyes on the side-view mirror, watching Kavanagh's bar recede slowly in the background.

"Think we should head back to Peoria? Start there again? It's been a little over a week," Sam said. "Some of the leads might have shaken loose some clues."

"Yeah, that sounds good, Sam," Dean said.

He wanted a hunt. He wanted to find it, to research it, to track it down, and he wanted to kill it. Whatever _it _was. Right now, it didn't much matter. He knew Sam wanted to keep looking for Ava. He knew he'd begged Sam to lay low. He knew all those things, but he _wanted_ a hunt. A hunt was normal, a hunt was familiar, a hunt he knew. And he'd been on shaky ground for too long. He needed to get steady if he was going to be able to face what was coming. If he was going to be able to save Sam from whatever threatened to take his brother from him.

He saw what he could have sworn was an old Indian Motorcycle in the mirror. Grey and red, looked to be a 1960's model, pulling around the corner and heading to Kavanagh's bar. Sam was sitting at a stop sign, evidently trying to decide which way to go. The Indian paused at the entrance to the dirt lot, then pulled forward toward the Impala, picking up speed. Sam started to turn right, pressing on the accelerator.

"Sam, stop the car," Dean said, sitting up straighter, his eyes on the side-view mirror.

"What?"

"Stop the car," he said again, this time with more force. Sam hit the breaks and Dean's hand was on his door handle before he felt Sam shift the Impala into park.

He stepped out of the car and turned around. She'd stopped the motorcycle about ten feet from the rear of the Impala, climbed off the bike and pulled off the grey helmet. He started toward her. He didn't know what he was expecting. He just had to see…

She stopped just short of him. He stared at her, swallowing hard.

"I couldn't…" she started. "I wanted to, but… I couldn't."

He didn't say anything, just watched her.

"You saved me, you know," she said. "Declan warned you, and you came anyway, and you saved me. And I don't just mean from Eamon and Jack," she said shaking her head. "I mean from me."

Dean tilted his head.

"I almost let myself disappear earlier. But you… you are out there, Dean. You are out there and you face it every day. How can I do any less?"

She stepped up to him, barely an inch away, but kept her hands to her sides.

"I want you to know that I can sleep at night because you're keeping the monsters away. I want you to do what you do. I want you to finish this. And then I want you to come back to me."

"Brenna," Dean shook his head. "This might never ever be over."

She nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it will. Someday."

"You're gonna wait for _someday_?"

Taking a breath, she reached up to his face, pulling him close and kissing him hard. He grabbed her shoulders, holding tight, pressing his mouth to hers, cutting off their air, not caring. They let go at the same time and she smiled.

"Is that a yes or a no?" Dean asked.

"Come find me when you've finished this. I expect to see you again someday," she said, turning from him and walking back to the Indian. She grabbed the helmet, then looked up at him, her druid eyes flashing at him once. "And I don't like to be disappointed."

She glanced past him briefly, flashed a smile, then pulled on her helmet. Swinging her leg over the bike, she turned it on, gunning the engine and turning around to head back the way she came.

Dean watched her go, then turned to see Sam standing a few feet behind him, leaning against the trunk of the Impala. He met his brother's eyes, not sure what Sam thought of what he just saw.

"So," Sam said, tilting his head. "A motorcycle, huh?"

The corner of Dean's mouth pulled up into a grin. "At least it's a classic," he replied.

"Dean," Sam's voice was serious, his eyes focused on Dean's. "Are _you_ gonna wait for someday?"

Dean looked back at his brother, knowing what he meant, unable to answer. "Get in the car," he said, shaking his head.

He slid into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut. Sam turned on the car and reached for the radio.

"_Burn out the day. Burn out the night. I'm not the one to tell you what's wrong and what's right. I've seen suns that were freezing and lives that were through. But I'm burnin', I'm burnin', I'm burnin' for you…"_

"You ready?" Sam asked.

"You know what we need, Sammy?" Dean said, looking over at his brother out of the corners of his eyes.

"I'm afraid to ask."

"We need a nice, old, haunted house. Salt and burn the bones, get us back into the swing of things."

"You need help, man," Sam grinned.

"Eh," Dean shook his head. "I got you." He looked over at Sam. "My trusty geek-boy sidekick."

"Nice," Sam shook his head, but his grin didn't waver.

"Let's go, Sam," Dean clapped a hand carefully on Sam's right shoulder. "We've got work to do."

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_a/n: Thanks so much for sticking with me! I hope you enjoyed the ride._

_I will be taking a brief break from posting. I am excited to have the opportunity to work with the fantastic writers over at the Virtual Season. I will be writing a couple of episodes there before I begin to post the next story I have in mind – which is a brother-only story. Brenna has some things to work out on her own before she joins them again someday down the road, but she'll be back…_

_Music:_

"_Don't Turn Away" by Ra – there you go, Tree!_

"_Alone" by Alice in Chains and Pearl Jam_

"_The Undefeated" by Iggy Pop_

"_Goin' to California" by Led Zeppelin_

"_When the Levee Breaks" by Led Zeppelin – sojourner, this one's all yours, kid_

"_Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin_

"_Burnin' For You" by Blue Oyster Cult_


End file.
